---

crushing my legs between the gears

let the crust form over my eyes

fields of grey cast no shadows

wise men sit, with abrasive acceptance

of the love for themselves

relinquishing, control to the hand

of the ever grinding state

the massive pendulum

swinging out of line

a subtle hint to give in

an epicenter of rot inside

daily lashes on our backs

not hard to tell, what's to come

I choke and gasp to inhale the thick air

I stomp my feet until they are broken and bare

liquid swells beneath burning ground

Under the bark, the wood is soft

Fortunate if we witness this falling

justice is only served in a bitter end

sucking from their gluttonous master

see the remnants line their lips

streaking drool

wets the knees

dropping to where they sit

Throne of shit