The harsh noises no longer
jolt our 'refined' senses.
We don't notice now,
around our dream fields,
the steel fences.
Our fellowship, at its end
breathes now on
a sustenance of suspicion.
Helping hands only hand
out phials of poison.
Plastic and paper.
They are the new religion.
They are the masters,
and we are
the humble peons.
Most of it worked really well, aloque. Didn't like the last rhyme though - the peons bit. The start was great... sucked me into it immediately. Phials of poison was nice.
Do more of these. You're good at it. :)
but we are slaves to money. it dictates more of our actions than it should. a method of exchange has now become a way of life.
and we are peons.
Relaised that, but it seemed a bit forced. Just my opinion. :)
btw, you hiding?