Red ink floods the tiles. Thrift-shadows stretch and grow. We count the silver spoons in neat and narrow rows — A wealthy kind of poverty, a narrow kind of glow. Porches swallow the dusk. Tea-cups hold the fear. We wait for signals now to prove why we stand here. Playhouses crowd the shelf. The crumb dictates the rank. We trade the golden age for a digital, rhythmic blank. Vises grip the center. The balance names the frame. We seek a hand to hold beneath the plastic name. Anchor the pulse to the hollow floor! Measure the shame at the open door! Salvation hangs in the greyest cloud! Mercy resides in the nameless crowd! The harvest of the dopamine! Footprints of the lost across the velvet rug. We find a secret warmth inside the clinical hug — A cold kind of comfort, a warm kind of drug. Markets claim the rest. The hammer strikes the bell. We buy the hollow air that fits the middle well. Anchor the pulse to the hollow floor! Measure the shame at the open door! Salvation hangs in the greyest cloud! Mercy resides in the nameless crowd! The harvest of the dopamine! The Squeeze — the drift — The crumb — the — Balance... capture! Captives watch the screen. The ink turns into lead. We march toward the sun. The weight that feeding brings. The center closes tight. The Savior takes the key. To find a better bond inside the entropy.
