Controlled Mayhem Then Erupts

This moon was a planet just like earth, only it is even deader, deader, deader, dead. The pistols of its flowers are the only protection against insects. More preoccupied with the half-rotted inhabitants when they breathe, when they breathe. Soiled to the brim under their own garments. History informs of their blood flowing down one leg and up the other. Memories outside themselves in a twisted prank played upon them, like dogs tired of chasing their food. Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially. Flashes of their purpose stripped to skeletal ornaments of meat and resin from animal marks. Flicker over the loud-screen. Flicker over the loud-screen. Machines hum quietly in the distance. A few naive inhabitants wander foolishly after sundown, in search of black spots. But no one leaves this moon carefree of memory. Survivors often match their hands upward towards greater satellites, wronged in the eyes by a million miles and a million more bodies to sift through. No one leaves this moon carefree of memory. Wronged in the eyes by a million miles and a million more, and a million more. And a million more bodies to sift through. When they breathe, they inspire. When we breathe, we expire. When they breathe, they inspire. When we breathe, we expire.