Collection 2

Ritual

The meat hooks gleam in moonlight,

Black candles cast cursed lights,

A bloody fate awaits my body,

I am what the beast wants me to embody.

The stone cold floor becomes a bed,

I lay where the last one came and bled,

But I know better than to be scared,

I'll fare better than the last one fared

I will not scream, I will not cry

I'm not going to pray or wish to die.

It's what I was meant to do, you see.

I'll burn and die like an old oak tree.

I prayed and prayed and devoted myself,

But here I lay all the same, tucked into a shelf.

I've accepted my fate and yours too.

The ignorant people just don't have a clue.

And here I go, I'm lifted up.

I look all around and see the cup.

The golden chalice where my blood will be kept

And placed by my side when I will be trapped.

I am turned and forced to scan the room,

This hooded one's arms cast a dreaded loom.

His seven companions stand 'round the crescent.

They sing, their voices entwined incessant.

Their visages invisible, I may only feel.

The bigger one yields, and my fate was sealed.

He placed me down and forced me to kneel.

What he said to me next made all things revealed.

"Cry not little one, you knew this would come,"

Penance reaped my tiny soul, I felt his grace succumb.

"The promise I made to you and yours, was always to be eternal,

Now stay and pray, to me, your giver sempiternel"

He gripped my throat and lifted me high and placed me on the hook,

Of all the things that it once said, this was never in the book,

For the truth I've seen and the truth I know, may never see the day

I know deep down and in my wound that we are not meant to stay.

We are toys, dolls and playthings for it's sick games.

It knows me and it knows you, it owns our names.

The hook never scared me, and neither did he.

It was the people, who followed his "loving" fig tree.

I was doomed to the hook from the start,

You and I, You all and myself, must all someday part.

Whether you fear the hoods and their teacher,

You can always close your ears to the preacher.

Not all who must part will be forced to the hook,

Not all who were forced to the path will fall by the rook.

Your fate is yours, and your choices alone change the script.

You are good, you are not born to be whipped.

I planned not to fight, and I will stand by my words,

But my body is slumping and I can hear the birds.

Not a tear falls my eye, not a drop of sweat comes.

But the hook is beginning to hurt, and I can hear its outcome.