They pack us tight in a space too wide,
Sweat-soaked suits, pressed side to side.
Faces stare, the lights burn cold -
A forced applause, stories sold.

They talk in codes, metallic hums,
Buzzing like bees till my spirit numbs.
In a rusted clockwork, names are called,
Voices like static, the crowd enthralled.

A parade of duty, of faces, of dread,
Blank-eyed and frozen, painted red.
Here we are shadows, strung in line,
The more they speak, the less we shine.

Under the ceiling that leans in close,
They crush out hope with a papered dose.
"Comrade, stay!" - a silent, voiceless roar,
While the gears grind on in this endless war.

Just like echoes from a distant zone,
I wander through but never alone.
Ghosts hum "progress," shades repeat,
Cold and gray in the structured beat.

A parade of duty, of faces, of dread,
Blank-eyed and frozen, painted red.
Here we are shadows, strung in line,
The more they speak, the less we shine.

Garbage Compactor - walls draw tight,
Three-two-six-three-eight-two-seven , sealed in fright.
Pressed down hard, no space to lean,
Caught in the teeth of a ghost machine.

Men in masks of duty's haze,
Moving in their ordered phase.
Programmed to echo and fall in place,
With voices trapped in time's embrace.

And no matter the words I throw their way,
A script unfolds with nothing to say.
We drift, we watch, eyes glazed and lost,
In a hollow act, numb at all costs.

A parade of duty, of faces, of dread,
Blank-eyed and frozen, painted red.
Here we are shadows, strung in line,
The more they speak, the less we shine.

The walls close in, the air turns thin,
Ceiling drops like ironed skin.
In this parade of duty's tune,
Trapped in the orbit of a hollow moon.