Snakes in the womb, in the forge
Of life; cold โ abandoned it answers
No questions, no arguments sold
Of right or wrong, of pride or fall.
Worms in the wound, grim the pace
Of life; warm โ pulsating, festering
Questions and flawed arguments:
We are masked, betrayed, tools
Of a master race; No! Merely tinsel
Shuddering in a cold winter wind,
Finding purposeless dreams
Along the way to meaning.
