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Metro Chariots line up and scoot forward like how a veteran warrior does on a frost bitten dolly with his legs shot off. Confused and betrayed, he is too poor for a powered wheel chair. He was fashioned this way, like how a mythological god shapes a lump of clay with a twig into a human being, and then broken by a political body that cares naught for its youth. We the People pay for the elite to have power (over others) with tomorrow’s imaginings, which lie shattered on cobbles of bloody shrapnel. Golden stones pave over bombs and bullets with empty promises of American Dreams.