by David Andrés Alíx

Conscripted bearing an undecorated throat

 Quartz shoulders though not a soldier

 Dispatched by the Architect’s cradling eyes

 Granted checkpoint clearance system wide

 Marching with taught spring inside

 No one to check your hand sufficiently sanctified

 All precious metals thrown at you from On High

You will remain saturated while most will have died

Wearing a cloak that punched your ticket to the other side

Where peace abides and all tears are dried and war subsides