My memory, though it feins sleep,
Is like a silver, fragile gun-
With likes as such to make me weep
And give my mind unto the street
To gain the prize that death had won.
Faces are without number, here,
And the voices are their sequel.
(The selfish wants and thirsts for fear-
Rewards for such remain unclear)
Battle marks her victims equal.
Hands that leak ambivalence-
(Wreak havoc on the passers-by
And leave the victim's best defense
Bleeding their intelligence)-
Could either help, or harm, or lie.
What faith am I supposed to find
In the fate of this, a soulless race?
While others of another kind
Can steal your heart and break your mind...?
The culprits bear a human face.
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