all the poets simply stood idly by. Watched and took notes while the world burned and the people marched off to war, wrapped in an all encompassing ball of fuzz eliminating doubt and questions. Marching off to war.
Crawl to your master. Crawl to your savior. Crawl to the one that controls you. Crawl across bloody minefields, salvation lies awake awaiting the first desperate soldier to stumble across her and drink her all down in one last desperate attempt to escape the threshing fields.