Pulley'd, Lever'd, Fulcrum tipped to fever,
Of hate and fear, the pressure rising,
Until shrill whistles scream from heat and metal colliding.
Commitments abandoned, faiths ignored,
A rage unfettered by friendships or gore.
A camp raped of peace and safety,
They are blinded to all but their self-enforced destiny.
If only the dark irony could pierce their hardened hearts,
That they become what they hate through these miss-thrown darts.
Rage becomes the master, and they its slaves,
Whether one or both die, no one is saved.
-Joonie Steamdrops
Gnomish Priestess of Tymora
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