When there's nothing left to say, and no one left to listen. Your good deeds seemingly all but done. Will you scream at the silence, or curse the early morn?
Will you attempt to reconcile your lost soul. The one you sold to buy a loaf of bread? The soul you forgot you even had, left behind in puddles of filth.
Overstimulated by the neon lights and synthesized sounds of false pretense. Of false reason, or true bliss one must be chosen to be left behind. Which will you choose?
The milk has gone sour and the bread is now stale, your soul is owned forever in someone else's jail.
Finding the truth, between a pair of silk sheets. You next sell your body, for scraps of rancid meat.
A shell is but left, an empty vessel of guilt. To be devoured by worms. To become only silt. |
