White... Lead... Skin. The mask is on. The war begins. Not with a blade. Or a cry of hate. But a silent stand. At the city gate. We are the ghosts. Of a Roman dream. The jagged edge. Of a quiet scheme. This is the war paint. Of the peaceful soul. A pale rebellion. Beyond control. They cannot bind. What they fear to touch. We give them nothing. We take too much. We are the Goths. In the neon light. Clad in the shadows. Of the endless night. The law is blind. To the painted face. A legal ghost. In a crowded place. No blood is spilled. No fires rise. Just the cold truth. In the kohl-rimmed eyes. The ancient tribe. Has returned to see. The hollow heart. Of the "bourgeoisie." Leather... Trench. Lace... And bone. A sovereign kingdom... On a throne of stone. The boots are heavy... The rhythm slow. Into the forest... Where the pale ones go. The forest remains.
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