Too many wasted bombs on others, too many wasted seeds of deceit
Too much contrast to boast a helpful word in this world that rewards hate with
a suite
You could save them for our own mass of morons, pulsating void of ignorance
Cloaked men invited from your union, two-faced murderers on a steady boat
Too many disappearing motivators looking to pay, dissipate, discard
I run the front desk — the hall they incessantly thrive in Hiding away not from the plagues, it’s the demons, installing their pain