Frag-men-ted in-hu-man-e
Not hiding, yet crawling underground
Not a home, not a game
Life lives breathing words
Of promise, of hopes.
Not a tunnel, and no network of roads
Nowhere to go
Creeping, striving, starving
To find a destination.
Not a grave, and on final rest
No tears or sigh of relief
It’s a place of rest
From the tiresome wealth.
Not blind, could smell the light
No colors, not black or white
Smells of fragmented memories
Lived the lost vision of past.
Nothing to imagine, nothing to live
In this dystopian story
Surveillance is reality
Rebellion is pure fiction
Nothing can hide, nothing is exposed
This is a market, anything can be sold
The bricks of the market,
Are middle man and government.
No more consumers, no humans left
This world
of right
Could sell to the dead
Bury the conscience and lay it to rest.
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