citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves?

awash in the light of fire

you can feel the thrum of battle

the longing and desire

there is no one in this city

without an ache or want

as as the blood stains the walls

it calls out jeers and taunts

the boys are lost to history now

their names scattered by the breeze

the city does not allow weakness

it has no room for ease

and the martyrs haunt the streets

their flags fallen at their feet

the city turns upon its cruel face

the city sings to them

did you find what you wanted, it asks

did you get your wretched freedom?

~~~

He is a fallen god, tarnished from the centuries of clawing at the rocky water as the deep dark ocean swallows him whole. Chafed from the torrents of wind ripping at his skin while he tells himself it will all be over soon. At this point he cannot write but he has the most beautiful poem written in his head that will never be heard for all of eternity.

His face had softened, and in that softness they saw something human. Something killable. Something that would not get up once you put eight bullets in its chest.

Something that will turn into dust with time. Pulvis et umbra sumus.

It was cold. It was so cold. Why was it so cold?

He took the cynic’s hand. Warmth.

Gunshots, cold again. Warmth blossomed in his chest but, though it was not the cold, it was calculated and cruel. Not the same. His hand slipped away. He watched him collapse to the floor and he bowed his head in agony.

He succumbed to the cold.