The Intricacy of Dehumanization

Every man-damned day, I wake to hear the voice
that tells me that my bones will never break
as though I have, within, another choice.

The sky is hostile, while our wars are moist
and saturated with the thirst we slake
and every day, I hear the dog-damned voice

that coils carefully about my throat
and traps in me my every odd mistake,
as though I have, within, another choice.

Illumined tendrils weave a frosted coat
to warm the humanless and seek to fake
the tone of yet another god-damned voice.

Uprooted clouds drift to the asymptote
between the worlds of love and seething hate
as though they have, within, another choice

but to assume their rightful place and float
among the lines of both the weak and great
forsaken days. They wake to damn the voice
as though they have, within, another choice.