We don't know, and we can't tell, the capacity a human holds for insanity.

Drown in temptation throughout the day.
Take what you want, it's OK!
Don't pay attention to what they say.
Survival is a pleasurable thing.

Don't just grab what you need.
Take it all! Hell, don't leave anything!

The strong are nourished, while the weak have perished.
Enthralled with riches, as we cast our friends down ditches.
Slay a man, and refute the blame.
It's ok, it's all ours to claim.

If we can't face the shame, it's all the same, deadlocked in vain, it's too late to change.
A walk in your mind, the horror they find.
Following in your convictions, it's too late for restrictions.

Lost yourself, once again, can't even, remember when.
How it must feel, to crawl along battlefields.
Death is normal, love is feared, murderers are revered, the victims are everywhere.

The constant confliction does arise, kept along the path to a black sunrise.
Rioting against fate, late at night, embodied by pure hate, only deepening the regret held so dear.

Nightmares form where demons are born.
Lost reflections, a deadly infection.
An alarming sound, refusing to calm down.
Stern eyes gleam, life's poison, monsters without tact, in slow motion, sending more than a fright.

Charging into the domain of the dead, scaling mountains of red.
Numerous cries wail out of sight, ripping apart the night.
Many have fallen, something far too common.
Citizens and soldiers alike, left smeared upon Pikes.

A fathomless path, kept guarded by an immense wrath.
They should've refrained from feeding the insane.

What exactly is fear?
Can't explain what isn't here.
Warfield to Warfield.
No need for a shield.
Engaged in combat for the thrill.

Oh, what lovely shrieks...
Leave behind an insidious mark.
The feeling...
Ah, Just pure bliss.
A tragic melody follows the dead, the living couldn't feel more alive!

The sane writes letters for the insane to get better, the banisher of our enemies with every verse.
Blown with the dust is a pamphlet of us, lost in the shading of a human curse.

A cruel reality descends, the wicked minds we've relied upon.
When we return home, rejecting all previously known.
Residing in a dream, lusting for what didn't last, it's what they call a psychopath.
Bets raised to match, a standoff at the back, it's not us who lack.

The consequences of our decisions are sometimes hidden out of sight.
The men I didn't watch over, have now come to take flight.

Note: I am unsure of the completion status of this piece. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.


© WarPuppets