Work Text:
“When does it end?” he spoke, frustrated,
Unsure if he could take one more
New beating or a bullet, frankly,
He’s tired.
He’s well-spent.
He’s sore.
Forever aching and unstable,
The revving engine with no gas.
His boyhood was betrayed in shapely,
“Untimely,” preaching, “one of us.”
He’s older now; no trepidation
Or hesitation in his eyes.
It’s paramount he’s still standing,
Still fighting for the greater times.
What’s being used if war’s approaching?
What’s being whipped if hitting’s light?
There are no kids in soulless marching;
The gun's still shooting — it’s alright.
And he kept pushing, he kept losing,
Until he’d fix what has been wronged.
A toy in hands so dirtied, faithless,
“How long it takes until I’m gone?”
The man, whom, knowingly, he asked then,
Just stared at him all lost instead.
“I’m not that sure,” he said, unsettling,
“I don’t make plans that far ahead.”