Feet Made For Walking

The day I was born was the day I was bound.

Iron around my ankles, my wrists.

Labor ensued, and a meaningless life.

A futile fight for futile freedom.

Sometimes, the taste of freedom

touches my tongue, my soul.

And then, in an instant, no more.

My wrists again feel the torture.

Frigid iron and venomous tongues bind them.

I walk an endless line; A line of drones.

I am one of them, or rather,

One of us.

The sky. Never bright, that damn sky

The sun. He hides his glorious face,

Unknown to me. Hell,

I can't even remember what time is.

The darkness outside matches the drapes.

The desolation within, within my mind,

Madness and fury, lust and hate.

All that fill me these long and pitiful days.

I think days, at least. Damn sun. Damn iron.

Damn fool ahead, dragging me along.

His relentless pace suffocates my wrists

And look at my feet. Cracked like this earth

Bruised and broken. The feet of a man,

Or so I once thought. Boy was I wrong.

They are the feet of a beast. An abomination.

The soul leaves crimson in spurts along the tormenting terrain,

The soles leave crimson in spurts along the same.

The tops of the feet might as well be the earth

The earth owns them and their owner

Calling him forth wherever she has need.

So we wander only to toil. We breathe only to die.

Life is meant to be lived by those damned in their visions.

Damned more than even me I see looking,

Staring into their eyes: their souls. Into their smiles.

Those cracked and jagged smiles

Like the mountains of Hades,

birthing the river Styx, when they smile.

Always smiling. Always blankly staring, empty.

Greedy bastards. Their eye never has its fill

Of fantasy. The ear never has his fill either,

of vulgarity. The heart never has its fill

Of brokenness. The soul never has his fill

of loneliness. The feet, well hell,

The feet have had their God-damned fill.