Rotting Nervous System

Choke my life into chicken pieces.

The road ends, 

They say the road never ends—

fire their lounge-taste tongues.

Arthur said, “The world is an idea.”

No one said, “Life is meaningless.”

So I ask: what’s world, what’s life?

It’s a rotting nervous system into the void.

Bodies painted, 

faces wearing masks, 

tongues corrupted—

for money, 

for praise, 

for kindness.

Souls burn on the dark’s pyre,

ashes running into hell to bear it.

Humans : new machines—built for money, for praise, for false goodness.

Where are we?

Where am I?

Am I mad?

Am I wicked?

Have I lost the sight of being human?

Save me.

Protect me.

My soul is dying among this.