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We are the children of rust.
Our voices are quiet and meaningless.
Like the chattering of rats.
In dark and squalid corners.
Around our feet, plastic bags
and old newspapers wrap and cling,
like the skin of some dead or dying thing.
Tepid ideals catch flame and blaze in a breath of apathy.
Bright like moons watching;
glowing over the night.
Don't long for the past,
our premodern womb. It was but a prelude,
besides -without us, it loses all meaning.