Sick Senses

I can hear my silence loud and clear.
It sounds like defeat.
It sounds like fear.

I can touch my hopelessness.
It feels like years upon years of willful ignorance.

It is the natural progression of the myth of independence
Metastasizing into holy selfishness.

I taste your sadness in our desperate kiss.
It reminds me of the end of idealism.
Of nihilistic bliss.

The scent of decay is ever present.
The corpse of a society that never quite materialized.
Punk rock idealism crushed by narcissistic indifference.

I watch as the tongues bathe the soles of their boots.
Spotless, because automatony is confused for autonomy.