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Inanimate Objects

de Haunted House

It's infected,
this city's a wasteland.
Slow drone reality.
Figure heads and scapegoats,
holding back the punch line,
to exaggerate just right.

We're collecting IOU's and absent apologies.
The unspoken sense of betrayal lingers.
Can we get it right?
When everything we know is so wrong.

Everything is expendable here,
Mannequins and advert placements.
We leave no mark.
No lasting impressions, (for a next of kin).

We decay
We cower
We remain silent victims
We argue
We justify our own demise

Inner test market, we suck up the fumes.
Meat, bones and bright ideas.
It's all insane.

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