Swollen eyes of last night's weep
no, not in public for I'm no dweep
up in my room, alone and quiet
crying over a righteous riot
battles fought within my head
but all I see in front is red
no battles won by sword or axe
but by pure reas’ning, fed by sax
wounds they shape in many ways
and scars will last 'till end of days
overall, a hideous sight
of power, not to mention might
hear the drums in muffled sounds
overtaken by howls of hounds
the battle of love, so hard yet pure
what else to do but to endure?
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