These days gone blind,
As who would eagle’s wings clip in their infancy?
The rewards of cruelty is power,
Dance in the embers; dance in the embers in the wake of defeat,
We have seen the suicide reaper –she is a tomb without a face,
Reeling, giddy with hate
Kicking the backdoor in,
As written in books of empty stages,
Victims to the cunning of man,
Indecent, destitute, murdered for their flesh.
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