Their army was the extension of a deity to them; once a sloldier, always an angel once a traitor, forever bubonic to them. Peacekeepers withstalled glory, and were therefore outcast And writing letters to the other side was an act of treason. Were one to succeed in his military feats all faith in mankind’s virility would be restored. Were your army to fail— no matter how unconnected— you’d desperately wish to fall on your sword. To be a slave, was to be a trophy And you would be ‘polished’ accordingly But an opposing war hero finding yourself captured be prepared to be tortured for private amusement. A common fore was what kept the whole country ‘thick as thieves’— However gruesome, it united them, And thus their military was one of the very best in the world.
The city was the mundane masses after all This poem always was about the persecutors of we, the beautiful and broken.
