The taste of fear is schizoid pure and red,
a piece of meat, it’s poppies lost and flown
from cries in mud and trenches darkly bled.
We harvested the fear from fields we’d sown
with honey dripping from the liars’ tongues.
This smell of fear is blood and broken bones.
We fought in fear and bled from broken lungs,
we bulwarked, starved, believed it’s more than right,
to maim our foes, the newborns and their youngs.
The sound of fear is sweat and starlit nights,
we waited as the jungle crawled inside
it came as rotting hands and ropes wound tight
around our necks the night we lost our pride
as life itself is fear a breath away from death.