Chant the machine
bleeding soul, depth, art
it is stilled, muted
the world doesn’t want

Crushing despair
bodies reduced to rubble,
joy gone dark.

Buy, 
buy!
More.

Secretly every soul knows,
crush them down
with medications and vice
this is not a way to live

Grind. Harder. More.
Ever more the machine takes

whom does it serve?
Itself, I think,
Because no one knows any longer.

Eating but not to nourish,
to survive, consume consume
Bereft of soul, of beauty.

Look not, 
See less,
those things are frivol,
Work harder,
Grind. 
Harder. 

More.