FicWad

All it is, is manufactured optimism with no alternative fate,
Forced to shine, big and bright, for the souls in need,
Darkened, but only out of pure customer choice,
Stuck inside an empty, emotionless space.

Gracefully flick it on; wait an eternity to flick it off,
Crafted to be submissive to all who are willing to pay the price,
Controlled by, what they like to call, angels,
And the burning desire to become a demon.

Surrounded by nothing but machinery and metal,
Growing dim with each and every agonizing minute passing by,
The jolts and shocks; electricity is the murderess,
The tiny, off-white switch is the savior.

Once a magnificent glow, gradually fading,
Wires that once held everything in place are now burnt out,
Forming into another mere shadow,
Exactly the same as the human race.