Die a Martyr, Not a Boy
Your arms gripping the iron walls
This chamber consumes your neurons
Feeding on your eye's wells of salt and iron
Your name has been painted in platelets
The serpent whispers of leaders grow dark
A young man with a heart of darkening dusk
Spared from a squad of his peers with rifles
Yet his heart still played a diminuendo
Skies painted redder than roses and regalness
Neck gripping to its faith in structure
They say he sold his life to El Diablo
Over nights of rendezvous with rebellion
But you grip the pen which jots your path
Oceans of stench won't confirm your hypoxia
For you are the nominee of Father Democracy
Holding the sword of our voices sky high
One last feast for your closest comrades
Lovers and mothers and brothers alike
They wonder if the sunrise will grow dark
With each crackle of your vertebrae
Gunpowder and dust, fumes of chlorine
They made sure you were dead, modern Rasputin
Not a savior or saint to those in the capital
But a teen with demands above these shaky lands
Slip from your corpse, never our ideas
For men shall die, but ideas never do
Young sir, the workers hold you dear
You are their compass, the sea of our morals
More than a boy with a yearn for reform
Dead at seventeen from a radical's gun
The martyr buried in our land's rich soil
Heart of blinging sapphire, brain of fortified steel
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