A sacrament to martyrs of the rage penned within a human soul -
Testifying its' brutal truths in violent, dramatic ends.
Forced to hide themselves -
From witnessing pools of light upon desks, sunrise mornings -
Leaving us with fractured, mumbling, projected, and senseless mournings.
How far and foreign your truths were -
To have emerged only through the mediums of screams and a blur.
So be it,
You did everything right,
Before that fateful day you lit.
When you acheived all your gasping hearts dreamed -
In moments of brutal clarity, meticulously built into fuition, when things were finally, at last, in reverie and relief, exactly what they seemed.
In purest honesty you did what we warriors do -
Lashed out with arms of death -
Grasping fellow passengers, willing or not.
By the simple tools of hatred,
Enacting revenge on ghosts and nothing,
Expecting others to do the same,
Staring creation and destruction in the face,
Daring them to plunge into madness alongside you -
Ripping, decimating strings of their hearts, laid out in brutal patterns alongside you -
Doing what us warriors do.
And yet, nontheless, the greatest fear coming from how many lost souls empathize in the animal nature of it all, the lack of choice arriving eventually like a jet-black train... how many lost souls, boot-laced, would have queued up beside you.