by Nick Gisburne
While politicians bark behind the screens,
The scientists who serve them know their place.
Directing cold, malevolent machines,
They punch corrosive cables through my face.
With every surge the steel reveals my screams,
The tortures, tainted, painted black with pain.
Their infinite, intolerable dreams
Are miseries my mind cannot contain.
Connected to the network they control,
I see whatever secrets I am shown,
And, swallowing their propaganda, whole,
They label me as property, their own.
But I am not a pawn of any plan.
They cannot see their doom, their death. I can.
