There was us
Sinners of great reckon.
Revolvers swinging
from our fingers
seeing through the many
unnatural orifices filled
with blood
and bullets
from these beautiful
revolvers of ours.

What were we anyways but
brigands from inception
born to lose
born losing
losing still
and probably dying still
with this curse
of woeful loss still upon us
What are we anyways?

And then, there was them
call them an
impersonal those if
you will
but we know them as them
as you’d probably
know their offspring as
them too.
Suffice to say, young
friend of mine
they won at everything.

Fate sided them,
humanity did too.
There were no illusions
these were kings
and no mean ones
for by their mouths
no insults, orders and screams came.
No, theirs was stoic silence
borne of their
The perfect humiliation
for our shameless
They still win


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