Urban decay not concealed behind the thin strands of social barbed wire. Decadence and electronic gates sit in judgement amongst those who cannot keep poverty fae the door. The lining of the box can not comfort a man in his moment of burial silk. In death, the dead greet only themselves. In the chair, the exchange to health is a barter between man and the divil himself. Razor barbs protrude from every branch of the tree. The snake and the apple, the second bite more deadlier than the first.
The bruised wood of the floor, the worn down heels of the young girl who spills coffee as her entity walks. Push aside the glass offering of sugar, nothing rids the guilty man fae the bitter taste of sin. To take sugar, to take a life. A flat line of emotions, a nothing decision based on a nothingness of conscience. It is in a mans eyes. Instilled at birth and can never be removed or denied. Each man slays his equals and agrees to answer before his own version of God. Each sin to cover up the last. In poverty we sleep, in riches we continue to slay our ghosts. In the chair, we accept our fate... and wait.
