Victors

Starve the sun

Kill the spirit in the earth-man

Pride in only the puzzle of our making

Ah, to own the veins of babes

That labyrinth for the knowing

Ban the un-holy sprouting Godseed

Even the word; for the word is the seed itself

Codify even tastes of the tongue

When the colony is yours, the man is a blade

Easily mowed down if not persuadable to orthodoxy

Do you mean to breathe? That is our air, sir

Simply tender your veins, give here!

Hand me the reins