by Nick Gisburne
They roar to see me rise above the dead
Addicted to the slaughter, they are lost
Still shouldering an ugly, severed head
I taste its blood and count the final cost
A flare, a flash, a frame of what was real
I see them, daggers, inches from my heart
This mind, a swarm of scars, will never heal
Tormented echoes pull its peace apart
The sky burns bright with searing shades of pain
But every pile of murdered meat is cold
The toxic taint of triumph fills my brain
It cannot free my soul, already sold
The crowds will see me die, but not today
I leave them to their lust, and walk away
