The most interesting conversations take place in the least illuminated corner of any room,
The place where those concerned with seeing
and being seen
don't venture
as it may throw a dirt streaked veil across
a brightly varnished countenance.
I wallow in this,
It's painting my skin with the exact shade of battleship grey I feel within
Or am I just transparent here?
Beyond the cellophane wrappings there's a wind
swirling the parking lot litter in a grand piroette
across the ballrooom
This rotted little castle still stands,
fragmented and frayed yet upright, the thorns and thickets guarding a vast labrianth below in the bowels of this beast
Standing here within the decayed corpse of a massive mechanized monster, I feel no sense of horror
Just a vague disdain-
Passing guilt at my callousness when faced with a vignette of mortality
and it's failings.
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