She stands in the slime and muck of rotting, decaying leaves,
Head down, curtain of red-brown covers her face as she silently grieves,
Walk back to the old execution ground,
To witness again, the bloodlust, the distinctly war-screech sound,
Back among the ones that psychoanalyse you for your dark writing,
But don't care that you're lost in the mist of silent fighting,
The real racket rages around me but I'm desensitized,
This place of Blind Faith And Academic Hell is so damn organized.