Dark souls facing friendly fire from
the elder combatants.

We aren’t at war.
But they are.

They toil and rage with their
indentured spite and
grandstanding righteousness.
Firmly seated on their throne
raised by fractured skulls,
pasted together
with stolen saliva and splattered blood.
Yet they eagerly crave our own

Our youthful exuberance is
perceived arrogance
and our will to go
uncharted into murky
Godless waters
marks us with the scarlet letter.

We, emboldened by the misguided sanctimony,
bear the cross greedily.
It suits our ambitions just fine.

Star-crossed hearts blur love lines
and the essence within
erupts on the skins surface
when we create ourselves anew
shucking the dirt they’ve buried us in.

We laugh hysterically
as we un-tether ourselves,
cut loose the anchor
and risk all ruin
to breath new world air.

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