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We are the product of our failures,
A lesson we have never learned,
Trapped in solipsist nightmares.
If our past is written by the victors,
Then our morals are branded insurgency,
As we become the martyrs of the next generation of victims to death by applause.
We once stood in silence as we watched our brothers' blood spilled in secrecy across the wastelands we never knew,
We feigned abject horror as our eyes collided with a truth we had known but could ignore no more,
Our fathers could condemn our conscious inclination into madness, wretched eyes and heavy hearts that feel the cutting winds of hell,
And left with no excuse we spiraled into our propensity for setting truth to flame and trading love for hatred.
(We will tear open old wounds so we can never heal,
We will never let the dead rest until our pulse is still.)
You'll hide your hate behind your false visage of truth,
And seal solidarity in a tomb,
Corrupted before you ever took the taste,
And condemned before the world was laid down.