That guy: An actual piece of writing?

I stare down at them. Scurrying about. Worker ants. Drones.
My steel cage provides no comfort, but at least I am elevated from their level.
At least I can see.



I see them flashing their plastic smiles.

I see them flaunting their plastic love.

I feel them fading away from the core.


And I grimace.
Their laughter; fake.
Their joy; fake.


I watch their sense fade away.
A Heartless amongst us all.
Their hollow pain multiplies. Exponentially. Infecting, spreading.
No force can stop this cycle. No power that is can comfort them.



So they draw forth their plastic. They cover their gifts in lies; in fallacies.
And I glare, high above their mighty land.

There is no comfort. There is no sensation.




There is only waste.
There is only decrepance.
There is only hate.



There is only rage.