Post-Human Humans

I've always turmoiled about my relationship to our patron War

Leeches and parasites preaching woes

So they may suck more marrow from your lifeblood

It grinds all things hell together

To even fathom why we bother to justify this infernal practice

But in the step War is as a malicious deviant devouring our country

It is that maiden of iron who makes such great works

Such enchanting and mesmerizing craft

The orchestral nature of chaos shimmers in her astral grasp

It is addicting to peer into this void

Perhaps is not War that I find such turmoil in

It's our weakness

Devoured husks of civil man standing watch over dust fields

Broken ontop of each other

Born into trouble

As sparks fly upward

A Silver Mt Zion.