we, who have seen a thousand times more
the death of men of rage.
the children who wield those terrible weapons,
and push us to kill again
we, who know not the pain of death
but how the sword pierces the skin
the lives within us destroyed by fear
that murders our immortal soul.
we, who fear our dreams,
the dead faces staring back,
are no longer recognized
by family or loves clinging.
we, who died before we are dead
want nothing of this world
our thoughts numbed by self-loathing
who rest on the edge of the sword.
