I watched as my people tore the flesh from their soft and delicate individualism.
Taking arms against the wounded, habitual fiends, smoldering from their falsified reality.
They gnaw and corrode at their tattered scarves and handkerchiefs, leaving nothing but remnant scraps of linen.
Cast iron explodes as the men with established fortune fight for their right to imprison and humiliate those of a lesser existence. Striving, standing weak before those who have made them such.
Hope and ambition grow weary with escalated hardship.
Oh their poor shaken souls. Discomfort diverges like a famine leaving only formidable desperation.
Bound and restricted, they are among the spectacular statistics of God and man separated only by divinity and youth.
Grief replaces the emotion on their cold and hardened defeated face. Gold and silky pearls embellish the streets of a higher phenomena, awaiting only those who have payed their dues and proclaimed their amends.
We are forever in debt to the men of the steel.