on molting carapace

This 'rapace is ancient, compared to my peers, I've lived in rust-buckets for nearly five years. A new one will scamper, it will shine and dash, I need to find funding – I'm lacking in cash. In debt to the lenders, I'll have to take work, I'll maim blast and tunnel, I'll stab with my dirk. The jobs will be nasty, my soul it will rot, I'll barely be able to keep what I've got. My son will inherit, the system I molt, which calms my deep worries but fuels his revolt. He claims he is ready, to join me afield, he's trained in our tactics, a gun he can wield. He's spent a small fortune, his implants are sound, he begs me to let him put boots on the ground. His mother is silent, she turns in her grave, if only she knew of the choices I've made. Sometimes I'm called monster, because of my deeds, I serve faceless bidders, I tend to their needs. The lifestyle is brutal, it fills me with glee, I am cut-throat mechanized mercenary.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥