Our world, led by sound, aroma, colour and touch
It's where the constricted people cry out
For the mediocrity they live
And the helplessness they're driven to.
Pushed into cubes
Where no roundness is tolerated.
And carried through machinery with no end to their belts.
The endless cycle from life to death.
The sound is harsh, the drums beat and bleed shades of every colour until black and white is left
The smells burn, singeing the outwards shapes and edges, leaving only four corners perfectly smooth
Colours that once held all dreams
Now faded, barred and imprisoned inside
Shells of our humanity.
Touch is just the same as the rest
Nothing to outward can be shown to others
For fear of weakness and unrest.
The constricted music and unspoken words doesn't help anyone. It only burns. And it burns us all.
