Only the insane write manifestos.

The Precursor of disappointment,

of full metal jackets

and pipe bomb splinters...

scribbled in woodland shacks

or blowy highland Islands,

the cold whisky words

of desolate winters.

 

Save us from the severed limbs,

and streets of burned-out buses.

Old men crying tearless sobs,

walled yards of baking Sun...

Soak away the Ink of pain,

that it may never turn to blood,

erase the mad to keep us sane.

Damnatio Memoriae....