This is the carnage of the front lines
The chaos of the open mind
Calculated madness, this last dance
With the knife's edge, a moment of silence
For the walking dead, who turn their heads
At those who burn their beds and bridges
Who welcome cataclysm, brandish
Their ink-stained weapons, dismember
A system, so intent on obedience
So dead-set on weakening the resistance
A prison that only succeeds in strengthening
The resolve of those they're threatening
This is the beauty of bloodied knuckles
The art of the bruised and concussed
Who fight back, with all they have
Against all that would corrupt it
This is the dream of a dying man
Who will live forever by the pen
Who will scratch and claw
At the beasts we are all becoming
Who will bite and gnaw, at the skin of it all
To reach the core before you fall to them
This is the carnage of the hidden spaces
Between conception and completion
Between dissent and revolution
This is the controlled chaos of a crowded room
Who fall silent, in reverence to the truth.
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