Wordsmith Requiem

Every time I close my eyes all I see are plagiarist thoughts from those who would steal my right to feed myself and therefore be the matter of material eaten. The books of belief and relief either failed me or I failed them. The television, reminder of real world, this was not fantasy, this was nightmare. The brushing off pondered into sanctions of entertainment for the lads. They too sought shelter; in the house of faith and beer. Each and own a seer of collapsing worlds; with roofs without pillars, with windows without light, with a footy pitch without green grass.