The World is BL/ind

The single streetlamp casts a strange glow on the street
and the red haired man with dirt on his face
pain in his heart
and blood on his hands
walks,
in this dirty wasteland that we call "home",
the cracked windows and the spray-painted hallways
beckoning.
"It's paradise," he says.
It's not, he thinks.
These city streets are broken.
Destroyed, in an attempt to make everything "perfect".
But what is perfect, really?
As the ashes fall like snow from the blood red sky,
the city sits in silence,
crumbling from the pressure of the stuff desert air.
The guns that we keep stashed in our boots and back pockets don't feel alien anymore.
They don't feel like a means of protection.
They feel like a way of life.
It's these times,
these days of danger
that prove what we always believed.
We are stronger than they think.
In a world where emotion is considered wrong,
we are the ones being chased,
we are the ones killing to keep the emotion alive.
When did it become wrong to feel?
When did we start living through pills and television sets?
When did life become a means of imprisonment?
That's what they're trying to do.
Keep us in chains.
Keep us from living.
We are the ones that fight back.
The single streetlamp cracks and sputters,
sparks flying into the air like confetti above the debris.
The light dies.
The man with the red hair walks on.