Trappings.
Flitting in,
and out,
of malls,
Scouring the aisles,
for more,
always for more,
walking,
undead,
through glittering halls.
Seeking out,
Luscious fabrics,
softest silk,
satin velvet,
crushed denim,
faux-fur,
trinkets and biscuits,
sleek gadgets,
that perfect shoe,
a must-have accessory,
cars, curtains, silver-ware,
gold time-pieces,
that stunning set of pearls,
as empty desire,
gleefully unfurls.
Piling onto,
heaving trolleys,
food,
and,
more food,
and yet more food,
to lighten the spirit,
to elevate the mood,
as countless starve,
a prime pot-roast,
of dead flesh,
we must carve.
Yet,
emptiness prevails,
as quaint notions,
of professed humility,
silently creep,
scurrying,
out the back,
while unquenchable need,
mutates, grows, pines,
it's insatiable hunger,
no longer able to feed.
The saga continues,
smiling faces,
lobotomised,
in the intoxicated haze,
with eyes shimmering,
through a toxic,
consumption-fueled,
trance-like glaze.
Trapped,
within the trappings,
of excess,
the undead,
waltz on,
oblivious,
to the torn consciences,
that have,
been so neatly,
so brutally,
shred.