These days are short,

As small as my thought;

The kids of this age are sad.

Their times are weak and its not their fault;

In this thick and all bleek air.

Their steps are small

and Vision hollow;

As hunger haunts,

their Broken morrow.

When they watch;

The rivers of tears and blood;

They fight to eat or be eaten,

To fill their dreams

of a full bellied night,

harder than all ones before.

In a cage build for them;

The fight is a test that they are taught,

that all must pass;

That this fight is the end

That they must see,

this fight is a start;

Where they learn to live.

They follow a path,

Too bleak and weak the road.

And one day torn and worn,

as your mind sighs, aches and falls,

You rise from your slumber

And the gladiator taunts.

His face is known;

His features same,

Mobbed In an arena of corpses.

Blood is around; there death is around,

They fear the hero who fights,

Your eyes are bloody

Now your hands are weary,

Your Brows are crusted with blood,

You feel the weapon that

thightens in your hand,

You feel the chaos close in around you

That Faint murmur in your clenched jaws,

The beast..you feel it..

You feel that beast inside

that you have tamed.

In that moment of hate before madness.

Your eyes dilate and Once again,

You feel like that kid;

Who was sad.