War guns

They say that it’s an art son
Making humans into war guns
Paper people, hearts blunt
Slide into your armours
That face deserves stardom
Your blood is to run in their gardens
Before planes shower pardons
What if the holy martyr
Turns out to be a bastard
What of the promised dark suns
This night lingers in all months
Go fix that paper mask
Paint it with soot and tar
Let flames engulf your mansions
Tonight we talk through arson
Die with brave scars sons
Reclaim what was ours once
Steady your guns, soldiers
Brewing wars they say, is an art son.