Upon their high towers,
Speaking phony, plastic words,
Unoriginal, meaningless condolences,
The blasphemers continue in their ways.
The innocent, once righteous, once vigorous,
Now lay prostrate, pale and cold.
As families and friends weep
A deluge of salt and hopelessness.
They sit upon their high tower
I watch them every day,
Cold, rigid and conceited,
Their bellies fat with their blood.
They act as golden idols
Demanding sacrifices from their flock
A sweet savor unto them,
In exchange for the fraying threads of paranoia.
They lap up the blood in the streets,
Tasting the sweet and tangy iron
They dare speak through browning teeth
Of sympathy, of condolences.
Up in their towers, they need not
Feel the sear of tears
Nor do they live the terror
Of everyday folk.
Yet I cannot help but bear my teeth
At the thought of this one simple truth,
As I imagine the day I scale their gilded dwellings,
And finally, creep into their chambers.
Their flesh will become pale and cold,
They shall lay prostrate beneath the earth,
A feast for the worms who reclaim,
Their wasted flesh.
I will take great pleasure when I appear,
In the dead of the night
I, the eternal truth of all mankind,
Shall take deliverance unto my hands.
The desperate pleas of their spirit
Will be a salve for my weary soul.
As I drag them to the deepest pit of Hell
To be the playthings of devils and demons.
They will try to bargain with me
Yet their wealth means nothing,
Their paper, their jewels,
Are worthless to our kind.
I will throw them into the jaws of Lucifer,
For as Brutus, Cassius and Judas,
Treason is their name,
Belial their epitaph.
It is the only reason I continue my task
Filthy, and loathsome as it is
For without Death
Tyranny would be allowed to reign forevermore.