You, The Republic.

People expect me to shed tears along those in mourning with me at a 'profound' death.

Others watch with planned out come as I walk among them and respond to daily occurances. 

Spectators, you are, to this gladiator show you have made of humanity. Let alone my life in its singularity. 

You jeer!

Laugh!

Disgard!

Decied! 

You. Chant.

The republic chants for life or death. Most ending with heavy swords edge severing another beings; seemingly, now fraigle flesh then bone. They watch in internal conflict before the brutes and social 'kings' faintly cheer.

The faint whisper becoming a roar as you, the republic, find akward sureness in the leaders few combined voices. Your voices slowly, as more join, rising to shake the clourds. The ground upon which you stand in revelery which you, yourself, did not choose or disgard. You did not wait for your inner voice to persuade; in fact, within you slaughtered your morals and opinions in wait for the few to take voice.

You, the republic, in the supposed name of games. Entertainment. Have parted lives from the warm soil of culuture, family, love, even the familarity of enemies. By miles of land only threatened by the leagues, the fathoms, that have yet to fully mark the seas depths.

In the name of unspoken for lack of need in your communal want; it is with that spirit your supiroirty. Exceptance of you by your fellow sheep in the few leaders heard. It is that want that has spurred the blood shed of the numbered dead. In truth though, can you number such a thing?

Though you can not even stomach sparring a thought to that which you have given approval and support to. 

Such brings this. To you, the republic. Death at your own blood slick blade.