Beneath the sound of wings, we know there is only silence.
Jitter in that mysterious concave
Just behind your eyes
Growing with every blink
Speaking every time you sleep.
Their wings thrum with each decision
And their disease spreads through blind inaction.
The dead are fed to the living
And living carcasses shamble
Through streets and cubicles
Through offices and schools.
They live in every seething, decaying corner
Of this midway between reality
And our idea of a perfect world.
But no story ends here.
Eventually there is nothing left
To feed upon.
There is only silence.
They lay their eggs where apathy lies
And suffocate a guilty conscience
With layers upon layers
Of self indulgent moral superiority.
Beneath the fresh meat, chambers of rot.
Beneath the facade of normalcy, an Other
Masquerading as human heart and mind.
You see, image prevails
Even through the muted, blurry lens
Of an insect's eyes.
Because beneath the sound of wings
We know there is only silence.