Traverse

Having no idea their friend was dead
 They went hard as they could
 Into the desert before
 Fire rained down on their heads
 What could they have done
 To deserve this treatment
 For every debt and deal we make under false pretense
 It's an account receivable in someone else's blood
 We're all familiar
 That the aim of power
 Is to retain power
 In the process
 Those on ground level become the ochre mortar
 Bonding detritus
 Together
 Twenty four months later
 Eight thousand miles away
 Endless chances lost
 What can be said but
 Forced apologies
 Forced apologies