I lay on the warm bed,
Heated by an unforgiving sun,
Indifferent to how I felt or wanted,
Misery is my birthright;
I looked at my wrist, my slightly sunken veins,
Maybe light's wavelength is a facade,
More green than blue, more death than life,
Tainted blood, still blessed with beauty and grace;
My skin burned, was something trying to escape?
Did the wraiths of my past terrify the demons?
Have I gone insane trying to make sense of it all?
Our dying sun does not care, capitalism has won;
The tired lights of the stars and the ever-growing dark,
My arms are weary from the weight of my choices,
Losing a war does not make you a victim always,
The land is unwelcoming, evolution's mutant regret;
