my stinging eyes see blurr-ed edges of tiny cities made of empty promises,
and all the little people, eating someone else's sacrifices, sitting at their tiny tables whilst their minds roam.
they are inside their tiny houses.
today they feast and give empty thanks.
tonight is for libations and debauchery.
my blurr-ed mind stings with slight reminders of empty promises.
and all the little notes, their tiny words meaning-less and less, ignite my collection of tiny sacrifices.
they are scattered on my torso.
today they smolder in my vacant chest.
tonight is for breathing without lungs.
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