To be the victor atop a mount of
Dead. That is no victory at all
But a mirror.
The hawks of war circle above
With the vultures crying from the cliffs.

How so easily these lessons are
Forgot. Those who boast of their powers
To kill. To be a horseman of the
Apocalypse.
What they forget, is that they too
will be caught in the flood.

Rubble does not a capitol make
And corpses cannot march in
victory parades.
The final cheer will pour from
Lonely Lips. Accompanied by
Silence.

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