Michael Figueroa (12/26/90 / Bridgeport, Connecticut)

The battlefield scorn, drenched in blood
Troops of colossal magnitude, march across the mud
As they clash sword an sheild, chant army warcry's
Soldiers fall hear/there, diminishing upon both sides

The two knights dismount, and join the assualt
With blood-lust in there eyes, how can it there fault?
Stormy clouds from over-head engulf the scene
The only two left standing is him and me

As we unsheath are weapons, for one last stand
The engaging of swords, could only be found
The knights swung wildly 'too and fro'
One minor slip, my ending blow

Energy drained, from the point of redemption
To die by the knight, simply perfection
Can only repent, for slaughterings i've done
Sanctuary of peace, seems time has come

Looking down fixated, on the gushing mess
for what its worth, i tried my best
Sharp Piercing seeps, the internal wet-work
A system of groups, damned gos the network

A final glimpse, of the killers face
The last strike, a moments embrace

The information hidden behind closed doors violence
Government must repress, for we mus'nt find it
Troops death! No regret! And still comes more
Wtf are we doing? Fighting this war