from the beginning what this love
of liberty would cost in blood.
What fools have we been in pretending
for so long, the wounds of battle
healed over, renewed again
as they are peeled away
from the parchment signed by many.
Pulped trees, hemp,
and the calcified learnings from the past
can not constitute liberty,
or the love of it.
I say, shred the damned thing.
Salvage the bits that matter,
scatter those kernels of truth
to harvest a world reborn.
(or “If Edgar was an anarchist”)
The world, a haunted demon nest,
their fleshen coils drooped chest to chest.
All else is gone, themselves consume,
with men, their blood, a death contest.
A tangled mess, the bloodied loom
that webbed from priests and kingly tomb.
Just few of men do see the game
where lives of men are pumped in gloom.
The fools igniting stately flame
are now consumed in writhing blame.
For having started devil’s light,
they bear mankind as slaves to shame.
Soft suckling sounds of men in flight
from host to host – horrific sight.
A wizened soul with cutting might
bring demons’ bleeding, night to night.
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