---

Deadly and focused,
running behind enemy lines.
The skilled precision
that comes from trying hundreds of times.
To find the pleasure
in wondering which weapon to use.
There's nothing to it
when you think that you've nothing to lose.

There will be no winners here when the game is over.
There's no finish line, though the sands of time are running low.

The price of power,
it keeps you with your back to the wall.
As others cower,
oblivious you are to it all.
Safe in the feeling
of always having the upper hand.
Inbred this hatred
that follows you at every command.

And we watch ourselves slipping slowly away
from what we need.
Sadly, to the truth, we've been blinded.
Our addiction's what we feed.

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