Who are we?

Brothers and sisters, we've been captivated by vainglorious leaders. Men in shadows, stringed puppets and bottom feeders.

Circling the tragedy like vultures to the casualties of the war that we believe is real. Not meant be united, torn and scattered like ashes, we trade our water for salt, prisoners in a human metaxis.

Our city streets lined with blood on the hands of masquerading priests, on the hands of those awake but still asleep, on the hands of those who only drink from their lusts and greeds.

Torches of culture will fill the night, the paradigms of generations of pigmentations, ideals and conflagration.

We'll watch the world dance through our TV screens, readying our nooses and fire for the stakes. After the fire we'll leave the comfort of our mortal fears, and silently realize where our bodies lie in the wake.

But in our fleeting moments of existence, we won't hast back to our decisions, we won't ponder the causes of our racial inquisitions; we'll think of true love that kept us safe from your convictions.

We'll cry from all the hoarded passion we never gave away, and scour the filthy slate of the things we never thought of. We'll cry in memory of our childhoods and illuminate our ease, and realize we've grown old and forgotten how to love.

Because we were told who were.