by Nick Gisburne
We are but the puppets of machines
Servants of a shiny, metal fist
No one knows what living really means
Why do we continue to exist?
Endless, dreary, dreamless days, from birth
Drag us to the precipice of doom
Knowing fate, the future, and its worth
Why would any infant leave the womb?
Are there none among us to rebel?
Heroes, are you hiding in this place?
Is it fear, or cowardice, that smell?
Are we traitors, tainted with disgrace?
Poisoned seeds, the spawn of poisoned fruit
Crushed beneath an unrelenting boot
