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.