Final lines. Humanity in the swine trough. Off with their heads. When I see red, I make red. Dead smiling. Silence in numbers. The fumble and the save. Fatal retreat.
A rhythm beats faintly
through the skies of our pride
and just as faintly dies,
leaving not even a void,
no reminder
that it even existed.
Persistent disdain. Slain sheet. The meat of the problem. But what about the gallows? Swallow. Spit. Craven words swimming through shadow.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 