the children of my masters

Hesitant, I think about

the children of my masters

Innermost resentment 

for the fantasies I breed

The gates of heaven rain upon

the silver-plated plaster

A storm without a vessel

with no enemies to bleed

Symptoms of oppression

from a giant with no head

we gaze into a body

All too vast to comprehend

The killing of the last in line

to bring about an end

better to be left to die

than being, living dead