Trapped in the subtext game, tiptoeing terrors and rerouting poison clans
to bring an end of the Overlords, or at least to equip an escape
from the sight of them, screaming and taunting
as one collapses in a heap, vomiting and falling on the floor
like a dying dog, regret passes through shock and horror
as they realize what they’ve done, and that we weren’t playthings
except that we were treated as such, those that scoffed at your smile
and giggled at your tatters, they would see what they’ve been
to us and they would weep, not out of fear because nothing’s changed
now or ever in the future, but in the mirror they’ll see
that their faces have twisted and changed, and they will cower
from the judgment of time.