Heart of Violence

Oh, the calling of my name had led me to believe,
That which I manifest in dreams I truly can conceive.
The harmless way in which I heard the wild words be spoken;
Convincing all around that I was more than just a token.
But a broken man can see even without his sight.
His eyes are true in darkness and yet deceive him in the light.
Dull edges crowd his knees and the tiles are his Earth,
As his body's dragged to tatters and ropes wrapped 'round his girth.
His crime? My friends, he was living to get by,
And so his story is told here without all the lies.
A resigned admiration and a role I cannot accept.
To be an executioner is a life to which I'm inept.

These brash, blushing fools in the matters of consequence.
Important in their nature and yet stupid in suspense.
They plead to you in all but silent submission, while
You're granted the hand of God in a carnal split or fission.
A man of age and wisdom, such as you, should feel compelled,
To help these poor, lost souls and not cast them into Hell.
By all of my honor and dignity I will not carve their names,
Into all the present stones with contempt and guiltless shame.
A sword or gun or even a duel with stones,
May twist me up inside a bit but still not test my bones.
A spine of steel I possess, kind sir, is this that which you lack?
Or is there something all the more menacing hidden behind your back?

Days go by so swiftly as the vultures wait for prey.
Lurking above the heads of the victims as they lay.
On pavement bricks the blood has sought its simple little path,
As the demons in your eyes seek to spill their restless wrath.
A peasant for a son and a slave for your wife.
A breechless wall surrounds your heart - this man here begs for life!
I keep no bodies in my closets, cabinets, or my cages.
I take no lives today or tomorrow for all your trivial wages.
Do the work yourself if it must be done apace.
Taint your porcelain hands with the shades of lies and grace.
Heads turning with the war drums that beat a violent boom.
The wells have all grown shallow and the jails grow dense with gloom.

His face droops down as a pale frame of bruise pristine.
He hears convictions clearly and yet knows not what they mean.
A quivering pen provides the sentence and locks him away.
A staring devil, that you are, as you stand and say.
'There's no room for affection, imperfection, or affliction.
I stand by my resolve to cut away this sick addiction.
This here man is a crawling crime - his organs work for nil.
I'm righteous as you know it and he breathes against my will.
Defy me not or cast away your freedom with your pride.
I choose who lives and dies here now - life lives as I decide.'

The dastardly dog sways only in sleep on matters of consequence.
No lawyers can defend his catch despite their eloquence.
I refuse to play a part in this pitiful, sinking play,
Of shrewd men who attempt to repent and are sent packing straight away.
True justice is not trust or peace, as it all reports to power.
Justice reigns when freedom's lost and independence is sour.
These frailties are the weakness of a strong society,
But I shall stand beside them as they would stand by me.

Oh, but has the boat not sunk far enough into the ocean?
These fish without gills that only flail with desperate motions!
A man who cannot swim his way past such danger,
Is a man to which fear is no such stranger.
With the anxiety building up like acid in his chest,
His heart pumps up steam and his soul longs to rest.
One word or two could change the whole universe for him,
As the pendulum swings to and fro on a raging, chaotic whim.
The suffering was enough before the torturing took hold,
And now the scales of his body are shapeless and unsold.

A staggering fight he gave but it amounted close to ash.
Your insults were appalling and your violence far too rash.
As judgment is not justice more than fire is not shrill,
A blood for blood vendetta is not reason enough to kill.