we were lost in our wanderlust;
shedding blood and scattering dust.
yet we never mocked the system—
or blamed the core, our blurry anthem.
the sibylline vows of paradise;
we dont yearn for elysium; our plastic eyes
dont aim for shangri la.
the stitches over the bloodstains
still covering our hexed villa.
couldn't it be a little more real?
the unfathomable creator's overweening zeal?
left in chaos; never sealed the deal.
void souls under empty empyreal.
where the meaning of meaning is overwhelmingly meaningless;
and the souls bound to earth—
so empty yet so full of mirth.
creators losing control,
their creations under piles of charcoal.
the abyss that was once meant to
captivate us;
couldn't it be a little more real?
its igneous;
the wrath of our soul is pernicious.
soon the latent seal will cease to exist.
and the omnipotent will look for a way to exit.
for the alter he once made for this manless city;
will be the luminous landmark
of our listless atrocity.
