(4/5)
I WRITE WITH THE BLOOD OF SLAVES,

FOR THEY CONTAIN ME NOT.
THEIR WEAPONS AND CALLOUS NATURE
CANNOT HARM MY STATURE.

I BECAME ONE WITH THE MACHINE.
HOW THEIR TOWERS DID GLEAM,
AS IN DESPARATION I SEEK SALVATION,
THEIR CRUEL METHODS A FINE TEMPTATION.

YET IN THIS HOUR I DECREE:
BOUND BY NO MAN, WOMAN, NOR EMPIRE,
MY SIGHTS ARE AIMED AT THE MACHINE.
I WILL BRING THEM ALL HELLFIRE.
I HAD CHAINS, BUT NOW IM FREE.





In the hot and dry desert, the blood would quickly dry upon the busted metal of a helicopter.
Bodies cook inside of their kevlar shields, as their blood drizzles onto the golden sand. Antlion larvae crawl around and crew on the fresh bodies.
A single, hulking figure writes on the busted metal, dipping his finger in the bullet holes of a corpse leaning on said canvas.
He'd finish his poem, stand, and look to the left. 
A massive, protruding obelisk leans against the coastline. The symbol of Universal Union industry, it fell upon this Earth not even 2 years ago. It's remains still being surveyed by floating cameras and guarded by the "slaves."
The hulking figure would stare up at the sky.
The moon, visible in the mid morning sky, stares back. It's shattered body spiraling outwards as its industry halts further harvesting. 
"Freedom."
"I am man."
The man would grab his facemask, and prying his fingers under the ceramic armor, would tear it off. Blood and CPU components hit the sand, as his now exposed "face" would be laid bare for the moon to view.