This is where the dead come to live;
Pallid skin of psyche pulled taut over bones of neurosis,
Lungs of ego pierced by arrows of self-doubt,
Shield of reason sundered by the lizard
That dwells in places light can’t reach.
The walls reek of desperation, old lies,
The acrid snarl of bleach,
The metallic weight of blood spilled
In frustration, in despair, in empathy,
In defiance, in self-determination, in futility.
Close your eyes and listen:
The windows whisper stories of the sights they’ve seen,
Of men who rotted and women who rose,
Wrapped in flame, laughing, laughing, laughing,
But robbed of their voices.
The lizard eats its tail, feeding the
Numbers into a ledger into statistics into a journal,
To be converted into currency by men in stuffed shirts
Who treat our happiness like a business,
And wonder why we’re all crazy.

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