Addiction

We hold these ashened cloaks,

of addiction over our heads,

forcing the richeous to drink

the blood of our enemies,

harassing them to do as we please,

until they needlessly, hopelessly are willing; 

passing this evil weather radar,

up the north east boarder,

with mounds and mounds of pure white snow,

cloaking ourselves in bundles of sweaters,

lying and saying "I'm not cold,"',

the frozen brisk air creates icicles on their fingers starving them,

making their feet  incinergrate underneath them,

the puff of the steam roller ignitesflames of rich huger

as we inhale this earthly cloudy haze.

finding ourselves in a world ofabstraction and disorder,

as things conform for the better,

the Warriors scream out with joy.

"I'm going to win!" 

No you're not.

bashing demons to the ground.

I pick up my spear,

and stab it into my heart.

" you win."