Towers tipped in neon lights
Heroine sparkles in frigid night.
Smokestacks? Or syringes
piercing flesh and vein with binges
forced into unwilling blood.
Belching smoke from Western fields,
I can't shake--they look like needles
Pinning life flayed for display
Maybe it's just me
Or maybe it's the night
But I swear they look like spit-poles
You could almost feel it writhe
if it weren't for the sleeping
induced by frostbit weeping
you could feel its shuddering writhes
If these aren't pins or dirty needles,
do you think they might be teeth?
Because veins are running dry
--Who says vampires aren't real?
'Cause we see the living consequence--
paradigm bathed in red.
And, you see, the way we're living,
means we're all the living dead.
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