Gilded Bones

I'm melting and the earth swirls around me, a shoddy tapestry woven into my night's sky. The hum of a million everythings displaces that lowly voice of nature's choir, familiar but melodic all the same. No longer euphonic in its fixed ways, I suppose. No longer an essential part of the machine.

And the machine ticks on, each cog pulsating against the hard wired mass, playing the roles they swore they'd never touch and breaking old promises for the sake of fresh ones.

These new promises are thinner and wear easier but they suit just fine, at the very least appearing to be valuable. Their gilded bones and paper wings do not make for a very intelligent design but the people demand them so out they go.

Into the machine we toss them, fodder for the bestial work force we have chosen. They know no better and so they feast, poisoning their own sickly bodies with the spit of the righteous.

We are not the enemy, gentlemen. We are the cure for a rotting world.