war-machine

early autumnal slog pins me down, has me wishing for a 9 to 5 and new music to destroy myself with. thoughts scatter like pale yellow leaves under oppressive sun. bitter winds have yet to creep across the doorstep, so what's washed out the light in your eyes? maybe it's the overexposure to constant atrocity, cracked streets and abandoned office blocks. maybe it's the sterilized walls that replace feeling with empty space, exchange compassion for progress. the machine of productivity churns out piles and piles of fragile bones, bleached crisp and white as collared shirts. sit in silence and watch crimes committed for peace, pale-faced historians. shovel to dirt, match to flame, earth to ruin. press the button and paint the world in blinding blue and white.