The world’s deadliest sword clenched in hands that has no defined color
dancing across fields that are pure white.
It is wielded by soldiers who carry more ideas than a beast of burden can bare.
Marching line after line, the war cry the color of blue black.
If one were to brush fingers against such defiant words they would come
away as wet as a woman’s mournful kiss.
He marches to the drum of a beat that is both ancient and young
hoping to bring just thoughts to a world that has long decided it didn’t need them.
She carries a million thoughts against the bourgeoisie that stand off on the
horizon never noticing nor caring of their approach.
The soldiers run with the army that carry the burden of fighting for the people
who cannot wield their own blade.
They might never break the front lines but will leave their trodded battlefields for
the soldiers rising behinds them.
Their crumbled blades would be the inspirtuation and stepping stone to
bring down the walls and those rule behind them.
Maybe it will be then that the future will be ruled with fairness and our children will go
further than we dreamed.