Daggers of solitude dug into his back,
Walls of insincerity crashed all around,
A haunted bird flew past his train of thoughts,
A ghost of syndromes clouded his spirit
Crimson at the edge of the knives
Crept down a back laden with stereotypes
It's a fact....sugarcoated into a white lie
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori
Fact is
For making history
You have to be dead
And rotting
In your monumental grave.
