Cascade

Life's but a tired merchant, devoid of all but the most barren, cracked wares, peace is but a carrot on a stick, in lands where poisonous, gaseous winds, fly frightfully above the barren sands, And the taps spout burning plumes of gas, roaring, rushing gusts of fire and ash, whistling the war tune of falling bombs they still persist, and line the distant dunes like rusted gods, But it's alright, the crying never ends, the crying of men and women, beasts and children; for all the world's a sandbox too, And we patrol the petrol sands, with rifles and the blood of many, on our cracked and weathered, impoverished hands, And to us; all the world's but a vendor's paradise, lacking the decency of observed humanity, ripe for that rape which is harvest, Trapped behind a wall, a line that we ourselves built, of ruined stones and weak mortar, I sing the fight song of my school of thought, beware the predacious merchant by which we all are bought, Yet we soldier on, myself and my friends whom know little else in life, we face this ugly, cracking wall of false perception and might... And we drop our dead from above it by night.