There’s a beautiful sound that a wounded bird makes

When it screams its last breath as its slender neck breaks

And the sweet, salty tears of a puppy in pain

As its once-loving household turns slowly insane

There’s a mad sort of ringing from the mice in the cave

When they figure out the map it took so long to engrave

And the glee in their silence when it turns out a trap

Leaving nothing still breathing…not even a bat

And the voices of crowds still screaming my name

Their calls for my death have brought me to fame

The judge speaks in riddles, but I only smile

Their fear and the darkness will stay for a while

And they can insult me, and call me foul names

But it doesn’t fool me — they’re masking their pain

They shiver each time they find broken limbs

Scattered in basements, offered in sin

The dignified rituals in tome and in tunes

Of catacomb legends and mummified runes

But they can’t understand, and they’ll never see

The beauty in the struggles of a suffocating bee

The bright lights fading from a dying doe’s eyes

As it watches the stars fade from the sky

Or the grandeur of a falcon shot down during flight

How curious that these things cling so desperately to life

I will never beg, and I will never squirm

I am a Man, not a pathetic, mewling worm

And they can pronounce their sentence, saying that they’ve won

But we both know that, in the end, the madness has only just begun


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