The Last Stand

Everyone fades around me one by one like ghosts going through a wall. Like, I have a disease that no one wants to catch, infections that will rot your skin from your very bones. My peers leave crumbs and pieces of what they were for me to admire and loath, a constant reminder of my failures. I look up from the bottom of this black well to see the lid of this world and the space above, people looking down at me with greed and lust in their eyes. Solitude of being the only one left, being captured while the world revolves day after day. The Big Man has his label stamped on everything, including the green jungle that encloses me in my claustrophobia. His mustache and red bow tie are known to all. When will it be my turn to escape? Unleash my crispness to peoples’ mouths and ears. To no longer be this last stale Pringle chip in the bottom of the container?