Steel and glass
automaton fitted
with fiberglass dreams
Billows out economic
slaves in the name
of green backs
and consumption
Broken backs
and cracked hopes
gives rise to bitter mornings
Scramble for food
and coffee and then
the drive to that unholy
graveyard where the real
you goes to die
Old, grime-ridden toys
dot your basement,
reminiscent of a time
when life didn’t
have you in a vice
around the throat
Another day, another
dead dream within
the pile of refuse
that was once called
imagination
Source