Sanatorium For War-Torn Hearts Poem by brutal sickthermic saint

Pain is the language they speak.
Prussic acid suicide and ropes, suicidal letters.
Cynical disregard for true love, tortured and raped.
Faces deformed, scars and healing wounds at sanatoria.

Been counter-terrorists but the world never twitched a muscle about them.
Been slaves, locked in caves, ill treated,
but life goes on.
Melancholy fluids shed over their cheeks as backward flashes strikes 'em,
but steadily...they be-hold.

Stitched hearts crackes up again,
its 21st century who cares?
Yes its 21st century.
But that person you calling a hero is coughing war-dust...
Conceptualize your thought.

Pain is the language they speak.
Prussic acid suicide and ropes, suicidal letters.
Cynical disregard for true love, tortured and raped.
Faces deformed, scars and healing wounds at sanatoria.