Fresh blood
On a new page.
Reading life's lines
Before they are written.
Every word
Stands to conceal
Thoughts of the free mind.
Resounding thoughts through corridors of fine brickwork,
Empty as they both may be.
Synapses strangled and left for the grave.
Utter chaos as the dead pour soil on the living,
Leaving lore once forgotten
To stand as a base.
Strengthening the past's grip on the present.
The once free mind,
Restrained from any new ideas, grows thirsty.
Yet the well never dries.
Among the helpless cattle.
Growing old in blindness,
Approaching the slaughter.
I realize I am no better.
Nefarious as they are, on every level.

