What is a withered cadaver that walks?
Do the dead suffer?
I bleed eternal rivers.
The Styx feed the winged little ones.
Why is it that harvests of plenty must be first sowed through macabre sacrifice? I eat, but I have no warmth in my body. Eating the food was just like watching paint dry.
So then, why must it be that a cessation of work result in suffering? If the canvas is already torn and useless, why should I be forced to continue work upon it when I know its immediate destination will be in the trash?
If I work, I eat that which fulfills nothing. If I do not work, I receive nothing but bruises, and perhaps, cracks in my teeth.
The Evil Spirit entered my body,
though I am safe from its control,
in subtle ways I can still hear its whispers
coursing through my veins.
People are not meant to be objects of hate.
Yet something worse than hate grips my life.
Oh yes, I carry my own individuality from here to there
from day to night.
I am my own person,
that is what makes the violation of my body painful.