The party and I are
coming, Children of Gaia
Around our bonfire
last night we received word The village
defenseless, left charred, while men were away Women and children
forever lost, replaced by this haze Shrouded in blight,
carrying scars, yet we march The rhythm in our
step echoes with anger, drums of battle obsolete A distance so great
With a tone of
march to match Dedication observed
as Lyssa and the Maniae peak over
the hill
Consumed by
bloodlust, stuck in a frenzy, Our sabers rattle
for destruction Before long, the
minstrels will sing tales Murder on our
minds, a final stand to relieve Gaia of her kind
Ares will utter
praise, as we crack their skulls Their own
conclusion, pressured thieves to their prime, lowly committers of crime Bandits
no longer wandering life like nomads, places to be Pining over lust of
loot The great children
will be razed and robbed, Like a dying man in
the desert, the time has risen to sate our thirst!
The blood will gush
from lacerations we'll drag their bodies to the ground burned, so they'll never
be found To purge Gaia,
sending the noxious fumes above, our humanity in tow Scrubbed clean,
She’ll taste the
sorrow of bandits and her children, up in the sky Tears will fall
when Gaia weeps To savor the sweet
as we drink and bathe, Drenched by her
pain While we chant song
in the rain
To have been
Rembrandt's brush
Dunked in wells of
paint his captives of choice and I weave between halls of cages, bars rattling
and screams emanating from within this prison of color, on canvas I, the
brush, the lone warden, permitted to roam this maze
Colors cling to
bars, reaching for their captor, as another dye is dragged through the halls
imprisoned against his will, revolting, spread too thin a stroke of the club,
the pigment settled Purple's screams
muffled as his remainder drowns, condemned to the drain
The brush circles
above the pallet, the king seeks his next subordinate Green wishes he
could melt through Red almost splashes
away the madman cackles, Red's neck, choked,
by our controller's grasp
The great dictator,
in charge again, the labyrinth overflows--why does he persist the slaves of
the canvas cannot bear to lay eyes, cowering in the corners, shaking in their
shackles the last drops now in position until the end of their days, forever
fading
Into the soil goes
the turmoil of the world Though, it’s not
forgotten Pestilence smothers
Europe and loved
ones-- neutering the bulls of war Birdmen coo and
caw, scuttling city streets Stumbling about
healing, a hapless attempt, no chance to mend Bodies maze through
the city and out to peasants None are safe, save
those in consecrated earth
Saints weep as Holy
ground is lost. Crusades put to
rest, plague creeping and conquering, heaven's great stairway, gone For the
infected, doomed to diabolic chambers, disciples of fallen angels their
bodies to be tossed in Rhone River
Prayers of his
Holiness’ fall on
deaf ears, all of God’s subjects forgotten, unworthy of the temple wrapped in
clouds Dreams of pearly
gates instilled within souls of sacred slaves, chained to surface, damned from
above Who is the Creator
of this ghoulish crucible? Buboes, to them!
