The Desolate

I don't know.
This seems to be quite similar to another work of mine, Time Is Of The Essence.

We are the desolate,
Remnants of a past inglorious.
We have nowhere left to go, nowhere to hide
No one to bring us out
From this tangled maze of darkness.

Our wounds have aged, festered and bled out,
Crusty from the dull promise of pain
We write our bleak, cloudy futures with
Quills of dirt and grime

The moss under our feet
Has grown out, twisting and dancing
Around our rotting thoughts and minds
We are incapable of any thought,
                                     Any feeling
                                    Any action.
Faces bare, minds empty,
Hearts ripped and torn apart
Shunned, scorned and left to rot,
Here in the metal and the dark.

The End

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