The Iron Fist

Blood on the floor boards. Not dry. Not old. Still warm from

the last man who dared to speak. The state drains its victims like

livestock and feeds the silence with their screams. Yeah!

Boot steps like thunder in the marrow of the night. Shadowed halls echo

with the purge of every light. Names scratched out like bones ground to dust.

Faith in the state rotting into rust. Eyes of the watchers black voids

in the wall, waiting for the whisper that condemns us all. Raise your voice,

they'll tear out your lungs. Question the throne, your grave's already dug.