cherry-colored mojave sands.

this is a decision we all make, and when we all bring bread to break,
we will choose another path. we will claw through all that's fake.
if in the end we all are equal, and when we die we all liberate squeals,
then the scattered cries of writhing flies will echo through our veins.
they'll consume us, then presume us to be less equal as a species.
they will gnaw through our rubber veins. the past tastes bitter.
we're all quitters.
when we punch our cards at the end of the day and feel acidic burns start to decay,
we will remember there's nothing more to say. we can escape our pasts if we run away.
far away through ancient lands full of strange old dissidents,
the world will crumble under foot and we'll fall into chasms of sediment.
the still remains will capture us.
our metal wings will start to rust.
we won't be angels anymore.
we're hypocrites, charlatans, thieves, and whores.