Insane Creations
The game commends the shadow of gloom
As it hangs above our quickening doom
Pass the pill that empties our sight
Receive the cure, repeating this life
Our dreams unchained, forgotten too fast
Awake to run, asleep to restart
Define this world, we beg of our screens
To spill the word, as the truth goes unseen
Spread the gold, as money is real
To work and pray for all we can’t feel
The hanging man caressing his noose
His tie in hand; his money his muse
Mechanically the shadow now breeds
Within our hearts, spilling disease
Now those we love can’t stand to touch
The loneliness that has become our crutch
This game hand-made by fear and betrayal
Gone on so long, that it now seems too real
But a world so dark tempts reason to rise
There is a light telling us we’re alive
It’s just a game, none of it truth
Without dead will, the machine can not move
It’s only real as our conscious sedates
It’s only pain, it’s only us and what we create
Copyright © Ian Petch | Year Posted 2009
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