To his mouth goes my hand’s ink!
And the electric corpse feeds.
It says minds ought not to think,
And in our ignorance, we heed.

It says pen and pain can be effaced,
And what’s intangible can’t ache.
But right here, in this red intricate maze,
Why does it all feel fake?

Our soul’s intoxicated,
By a man that doesn’t breathe.
Our spirits are sobered yet fascinated,
By a mechanical thief.

In the fissures of our brains,
There’s little He’s forgotten.
Reality’s gone down the drain
And the rest has become rotten.

Veins are plugged to walls,
And the heart, it beats in volts.
Humanness has been shattered with a fall,
And it has been nobody’s fault.