If You Can See The End It's Already Over

Sheilding my face with my very means of survival. The very weapons abused, left to rot through to the bone, Just one foot from equaling the six below. Deaf / defeated, where peace of mind tightens it's grip among a smoldering variable. Hell. Vomiting. A few personal unnamed choruses of goodwill toward man that I have left. Dusting my finger prints. The caskets of the ill-taxed still withering in opposition, regardless of past lessons, proving the human condition and it's remains kept at my side.