Frankness makes the canvas bare,
With trace hints of an off-shade blue.
A palette of justice with a balanced renewed.
Stay true to yourself,
If you knew what these shelves had to hold.
Paints for a straight path to hell made of gold,
Or a bed with a cross when you're withered and old.
I was told this kind of war is not fought,
It is not won with weapons
It's not one to be bought.
You stand at the barracks
Holding echoing hounds
As sickness takes foe,
And they fall to the ground.
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