rosere: (Default)
2013-09-21 10:26 am


 We have numbers scrawled on our broken backs

1 to 1200

We speak the hoarse tongues of ruined throats 

We feel black energy rush through thin veins

Creeping like a wandering elder ghoul

Speak to us in whispers, o brutal Lord,

For bitter souls we have been, much too stubborn in nature

Yet fools must pay the price; to receive their bitter end 

We walk along worn pavements, all of us

1 to 1200

Silent tears patter on concrete blankets; we anticipate

Who are we? What are we?

We are the 1200, residing in a state of nothingness

We do not exist; we are empty, infinite space 

Our only form of identification are the numbers on our backs 

1 to 1200

We share one identical mind; we are symmetry

We walk in like mindedness, we walk on like terms 

We reach our Lord, who stands mighty and glorified 

Our bodies suddenly collapse upon the rough surface of the ground

We all fall to our bitter ends, we lie before our maker

Our Lord continues to stare below, indifferent, at all of us

1 to 1200