This fear burns.

Another silver gilded lie; my life, the beauty of things inside
somehow I can't see anything but embers, pinching,
in orange pin pricks, the fertile forest of my imagination.
My own inventions,  have rusted, stiffened into rough ochre metal
peeling back my intentions, that clean sheet of steel,
that feeling of brand new, shiny diamonds and tungsten coils.

I refuse to make sense, I refuse to speak in time to a... rhyme,
I refuse to live like this, I refuse to let you let me down,
I refuse to let those words bore into my skull, bearing in on my mind,
I refuse to lay down and continue being nothing.  

I'm tired of this.

A husk of a house has been burnt out, one room remains intact. 

The End

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