territory’s truly marked by only one thing: presence. those who linger are landed, those who merely loiter are but peasants. so though to the uninitiate these pieces seem bulwarks for a border, we know what they master is a magic of another order. listen: some are bombs, blasted from fat caps to break a barrier or bunker; others get thrown up to jump the juice in some old junker.
whether standard-stuck or styled wild, each sigil screams a [s]creed, and every rollerunicarving means some[one’s] brother had to bleed. no wonder they say heal, lifer!, geo, i forgive you. ichabod knows these ways are safe compared to the ruses he’s had to live through.
such sigils keep their vigils underasure, afteremoved. complicit with a coverup, they consider carefully how their own art is thus [im]proved.
children at play know the facts of it: no matter who captures the flag, only the one who’s [living] it can [give a truthful] tag.