Day Thirteen: The Protest Hour - Trap Them

Panic, what the fuck did they to do you?

With false alarms, with bulletins, and death cards calling out the murder suits?

Someone, anyone…

Give the tremor his morning walk and buckle in the faulty legs of every faith

in tyrant talk

Stencil on the window guards the epitaphs of cycled costs

Of humans on medicated regiments in every dilapidated dream that rockwell

brought

I caught up with time when he was chained to the wall of a cellar vault

And they had hung him up and fed him anti-coagulants and cut the bottoms of his

feet

And left him there to slowly drip into an incapacitated state

He had enough left to look and call out his dealer’s name

The one who gave us drugs to take that never worked the same

And then he looked into the sermon fates and whispered out my way, «come close.

The priests have ears that tell the blessed when to shine their fangs

To sharpen their spears that’d lust nothing more than to fuck our flesh

This is what they plan to do…

Kidnap all the newborn babies and banish all the rest

They may have me here amongst rusted brakes and scissored veins

They may have stolen rooms and loves from runaway hotels and numbered all our

graves

But no man of the state

No men behind these laws

No men of the holy fucking cross will drop me down on my knees, will bring us

to our knees

You and I, we die as bastards of black belief…

As the fucking deaths of godspeak."

And with that we spoke our battle lines

As eyes rolled back and legacies were struck

We sell our fiction souls

Our quiet worth and bathe in bloods of sacred trust

The throats of every leader grande and cold are there to be cut by our kind

And the frames of every worshiped build and murder front will burn retreat by us

«So goes the life of the targets, so goes the life of the torchbearers…»