The heroism of bloodshed, the joy of death. The chanting crowd, the bodies writhing and groaning in the caress of firelight, the gleam of teeth. The blade of carved bone. The body, spilling useless blood, spilling an endless gush of the stuff, tacky and thick running down the arm, running down the dull length of the knife. Flesh into the fire, and smoke is rising to the heavens. This is the offering. This is the sacrifice.
Heads on pikes. A celebration in the city today. Hand on heart and eyes to the sky. This savage animal, this grim-cast wight. Go and stand on the wall, hold the sword high, catch sun in hammered iron. This is the prism through which we see ourselves, through which we see our true nature.
Bodies in the gutters. This is the age of the bullet. This is the refinement of death. Killing is a prayer to the god of oldest things. This is your life. This is your future. This is the blood that stains your palms and runs in the cracks like water in a desert. Nothing lives long out here. Nothing good will come of this.
Breed and butcher. Broken dolls marching in the endless parade.
This war is a holy war. This is our song of love.