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.