The City

Elektra and time-twister, hear my distant cry
	out of past beneath Apocalypse waste sand of a land which almost died
of spirit-traps and ancient vampires
transmogrifying life to bitterness.
Of a world where precious love
is sold for plastic and piss.
The streets flow with human flesh, churning in black ichor oil
	drowning in sludge, choking on burning rags
Some of our brightest work in the streets
	- paladins covered in filth, sifting through garbage 
	for lost love lights
	- healers and caretakers of refugees cast as defects from
	towering factory mechanical spires

The City burns a crown of a billion lights, each a brilliant star
	of artificial bright
All we have here is this little lamp --
	its cold outside beyond its pale glow
The City has heat without seeming end, boiling energy from the meat that 
lives within.
Thousands die in the City every night 
	- hearts gorged on young blood, spirits burnt with Hellfire,
	drunk with the glory of impossible suicide
In vain they offer themselves against the machine, hoping to outshine
the burning oil.
The machine is indifferent -- it devours them whole,
	each but a tidbit to feed its hellish glow
Better to die out here with our little lamp than drown burning in the streets.
I passed a human sacrifice hung with nails, his blood licked clean by 
pestilence
The only words spoken of him -- "He's pretty hard up" -- by a neophyte addict
of the City's tainted plastic junk.
Hard up at the Show...words of dread for the exhibits of draining life.
One pities them enough to end their suffering if any had the courage
Thousands die in the City every night
Would you?
A lamp like ours isn't much...but it's all we have.
Ever.