Flōs mortis est illūsīō mea
Shattered, branching stories
Twist and tangle into each other
And at the end of each, I hang
A puppet filled with empty breath
And I keep staring at my watch
Still trying to measure the time
Thick, bloody rain of money falls on my arm
Cars, planes, mobile phones
Spin around me
Below is a noise of me as a children
Innocence disguised as continuity
Greed hidden in our eyes
I am each of them
We are all everyone
All destruction is our fault
We are flawed, flesh-machine
Glorifying ourselves
Admiring ourselves
Self, me, me, me—with a consciousness
That mostly just sniffs around
Searching for what it can consume
What it can own
What it can use to gain power
And when it feels pain
It pities only itself
Crafts touching stories
About itself
This ridiculous, naked harlequin
The only way out of this existence is by going
Through self-disgust
Through loud laughter
At itself.
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