A Cynic's Prayer

A Cynic's Prayer

Look up.

Let us watch this glorious moment of self-pity riddle our expectations like acid rain sweeping across some dimly lit scrapyard on the crossroads of 'we're fucking lost'. 
The abject heaps of abandoned metal lay bare and naked, facing the sky paralysed. 


Rusted and rusting.  


Crashing rain tears through them at such a delicate pace, running off their surfaces with the intricacy of tunnels carved by ants. The copper tinged haste of metallic tears, metallic blood, and metallic sweat fall to the ground. And so ends the silent slaughter of goodwill. 
Hope wants to be a distant memory, but iron hearts tend to forget.  The only question left to ask is 'Are we dead yet?'. 


It all depends on what you count as living.