Lake

Lake

Select year in this holy ordained hell.
An isolated ostracized, cell.
A few bells ring in the courtyard at midnight.
Yeah sure they think they're right.
At night, the ghosts play upon the shadows of the wall.
This was supposedly the idea of the perfect community good for all.
The howl of the wind is a great solace friend; a few footsteps make their way around the darkened hallway
Around the bend.
Maybe the footfalls are just the wind.
Or maybe it's them.
The ones wearing the black hoods
And singing mystical Hymns.
They started all the trends.
On the almighty glow of the cave.
It came through in statically waves.
A piercing shrill.
It was so easy to kill.
The almighty glow of the fiery wave.
This was an electronic, arachnid of a web of chords.
A modern way to make an inauthentic Palantine hill.
Afraid of the screaming rushing hoards.
Locked doors.
Followed by loaded guns.
Quick runs.
Painful scrubs.
Spotted blood.
Bloody jingoist hymns.
This had to be them.
Not running.
Walking.
Talking.
In slow whispers .
He was probably going to be one of the next dippers.
His muffled screams, were thought only to be dreams by those chained to the cave wall.
Outside the moon shone full.
This was the control of the bears and bulls.
The bell rang at midnight.
This was the time.
The hooded inquisitors.
The visitors.
Had arrived.
On the specific night.
This time was right.
The blinding light opened up.
Showing the men behind the curtain.
Wearing their dark robes.
Destroying all hopes.
Perhaps there'll be a rope.
Or maybe some forced dope.
The call of an owl. At 12:01
was the only way out for one.
They raised their guns.
The bell sounded outside.
The leaves fell from the trees
on this night
everything was right.
As had been, since they had peeled away and drank.
The moon shone over the silver rocks washed in the lake.
Plenty of dead leaves to rake.
This was the idea of Plato's cave.
Everything to take.
Or was it everything to make.
It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.
No, it wasn't supposed to be this way, not the work of an angry tyrannical tempest.
From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.
The dark hooded inquisitors sang solemn hymns as they dragged the body through the weeds.
They had finally reached the trees.
As they removed their hoods, they defiled the dead dissident.
They began to hear chanting and bizarre hisses.
They continued on with their work.
And then stopped.
They heard something trampling across the leaves and the rocks.
It was only supposed to be them that made this walk.
They heard rustling, in the trees.
And then a procession of polyphonic anguished screams
Echoed across the leaves.
Let them eat cake.
The mutilated bodies of the hooded inquisitors, were found the next morning.
In the lake.