((Had to re-upload because it was the only way I could remove a spam review.))
the Revolution, He calls it
mud inhaled her feet with each step and water roared as it descended in sheets,
verses bellowed over the intercom until they rung in every ear like the Bell.
it was the Bell which made her cringe and lower her head and keep running,
not the splashes of ice as they plunged her head into the buckets or the insults
that echoed through the field, not even the bonfires leaping up to devour
any shred of the fear that crawled up her spine when He opened his mouth,
ready to spew out more of the desperate seduction the soldiers swallowed upon arrival—
in the days of acne cream and shedding the last baby fat, when
He stretched out a hand and offered the Revolution, the chance to play Holy Warrior.
(what teenager doesn't salivate for adventure and the wonder of feeling needed?)
and that is exactly what He tossed at them, dumped in this hellish field at midnight
to recite empty promises and walk until their feet bleed and then some,
until the world spins before their bleary eyes,
as every last one chokes down their selves, numb to the insanity of it all.