Vertical light. No place left to hide.
The shadow is swallowed by the heel of the boot.
The logic of the sun is a slow suicide
Burning the branch to preserve the root.
No filter. No mercy.
Just the white noise of the sky.
Sun at noon, the absolute zero
A temple of heat where the ego is slain
No more villains, no more heroes
Just the salt of the earth and the pulse of the vein
Burn it clean
Noon
Burn it clean
I am a circuit board baking in the glare
Processing the fire until the wires turn gold
There is no oxygen, there is only the air
Of a story that was finished before it was told
Everything is visible and nothing is real.