The crumbling artifice

Whose bellows wheeze and groan

Black lifeblood spilling in spurts

Shuddering its final days

The morning sun kisses their face

Grab the rifles

A cool breeze blows from the north

Spare no quarter

Gardening with the pail of mayhem

Watering the tree

Fertilizing the grass

For the rebirth of glory

Anemic children

Petulant and impudent

To crush any tyranny

Under their soft pink fists

Everyone is righteous

In headspace

Atrocities justified

In a quick stretch and a leap

Grab the hammers and wrenches

Tools of creation are tools of destruction

Pusillanimous guardians of the construct

Crumbled by the flailing of the other

And their own lack of resolve

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