screaming at the cold 
the mold of a mind so 
useless like a body in
a dark river

eyes crystal blue glaring up
amid the lapping scum
the corpse of who you thought 
you'd become like a future

things will get better 
things will get better

observers shocked back away 
this bloated meat can speak afraid 
too weird to interact with it
easier to laugh tribal simian

the differences are a threat to us all
a salient source of community, the salt
rising from blue lips like silver powder in grey air
like the last words of a dying earth 

things will get better