Echo 3, Mobius 1, Wardog 1

Some of the things we no longer speak of,
Are the things that we hate the most,
Silence in the cold broken by coughs,
Men tiling about as if they were lost.

We bump each other, desperate for more,
The touch of another long lost in the past,
Our hearts have bled and are sore,
Tired of people calling us trash.

But we are better than violent savage,
We hide the blades that gleam in the light,
They scream for blood and tragedy,
Blinded by the darkness of sight.