RavenDawn32
01-02-2010, 02:40 AM
The crowd are but dogs, flee-bitten curs howling for the scraps from their master's table.
They are baying for blood, a thousand fearful sheep roaring for the death of a lion.
He will not oblige them, this I know. He will not let it be.
He stands proud in the sunlight, fearless and beautiful. He cannot die. The world will not let him, for it knows it would be a lesser place without him in it.
He speaks, and he speaks well, and I am waiting for the moment when he will escape. Waiting for the clouds to part and the gods themselves to reach out and rescue him.
Waiting for the pardon that the king himself should give on bended knee. He is glorious today, as he stands before the rope, as his eyes seek mine out and find me in the crowd.
He looks at me, and smiles. He is crying.
The snap as the rope pulles taut calms the crowd for one long moment, silence falling as they still to watch the dead man's final jig.
They roar.
But their screams are nothing to me, the annoying buzz of a fly against the shutters.
I am deaf to the bells that sing the death knell out across the city, and I do not see stones and rotten fruit fly true.
The corpse still swaying gently in the breeze.
For I am consumed, and a hate once so hot and fiercely burning turns to frozen fire in my veins.
So I watch, and I listen, and I build a wall of ice around my heart.
The words I hear so clearly in my head, pause, half-uttered on my lips "He was not meant to die".
No. He was not meant to die.
A thousand fearful sheep were roaring for the death of a lion, they roared for the death of a lion, and the lion bleated back.
They are baying for blood, a thousand fearful sheep roaring for the death of a lion.
He will not oblige them, this I know. He will not let it be.
He stands proud in the sunlight, fearless and beautiful. He cannot die. The world will not let him, for it knows it would be a lesser place without him in it.
He speaks, and he speaks well, and I am waiting for the moment when he will escape. Waiting for the clouds to part and the gods themselves to reach out and rescue him.
Waiting for the pardon that the king himself should give on bended knee. He is glorious today, as he stands before the rope, as his eyes seek mine out and find me in the crowd.
He looks at me, and smiles. He is crying.
The snap as the rope pulles taut calms the crowd for one long moment, silence falling as they still to watch the dead man's final jig.
They roar.
But their screams are nothing to me, the annoying buzz of a fly against the shutters.
I am deaf to the bells that sing the death knell out across the city, and I do not see stones and rotten fruit fly true.
The corpse still swaying gently in the breeze.
For I am consumed, and a hate once so hot and fiercely burning turns to frozen fire in my veins.
So I watch, and I listen, and I build a wall of ice around my heart.
The words I hear so clearly in my head, pause, half-uttered on my lips "He was not meant to die".
No. He was not meant to die.
A thousand fearful sheep were roaring for the death of a lion, they roared for the death of a lion, and the lion bleated back.