born to capture these rapturous reflections.
burn them into the eyes of others.

we are the cameras of the damned,
the Polaroids of the dispossessed.

our truth is travesty;
our history disastrous casting.

we walk among them, but never feel.
represent their lies, with a brush surreal.

we are a race, not a
harmoniously moving herd.

we flock.

we fuck.

we fight, never give up,
never give in, never have balance,
find far more ends
than beginnings.

who are we
after all,
we of broken
springs

who are we
but the fallen
queens and
kings

of the
living