Haunted towers and fallen houses,
Tell tales with bricks and mortars:
Of scions spun by sprouts of spouses,
Slogging limbs for quarters.
Each day is spent in catalepsy,
Metabolized days in seconds.
Meant for manufactured folly,
That Frederick Usher reckons.
In a nameless, numbered working wight,
In his capital-crafted, corporate culture,
Taphophobia fails to fright,
In spite of vivisepulture.
Knowing not what nor who to fear,
By...
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