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Ghostlimb
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Traverse
Having no idea their friend was dead
They went hard as they could
Into the desert before
Fire rained down on their heads
What could they have done
To deserve this treatment
For every debt and deal we make under false pretense
It's an account receivable in someone else's blood
We're all familiar
That the aim of power
Is to retain power
In the process
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Those on ground level become the ochre mortar
Bonding detritus
Together
Twenty four months later
Eight thousand miles away
Endless chances lost
What can be said but
Forced apologies
Forced apologies
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