On The Lamb: Art reassembled

Preaching to the converted many,

Is like a venture into varied conversation with a chosen few,

For all the malice you’ve subdued,

One wrong word, a dissenting sound or awkward vibe,

Shall have constituted the execution; providing no defense of your good name,

One gun may be all that’s pointing, but in truth the victims shall be plenty,

You knew the possibilities that this could start,

But in the irony of this tale, you crawled to me regardless,

A suffering bastard, staggering, in search of arms outstretched,

You offered, through suffering extension;  In your own words reciting:

“Omerta, my truest friend,

A devil is here in God’s country now,

This fake messiah awaits 11^th hour , when both pariah and

Saracen unite in arms, preparing to die for this prophets’ name,

Omerta, my dearest friend,

 Everything shall soon be nothing, salvation lost & reclamation laid to rest,

In the absence of the sacred, not a warning, no remorse for the wicked or the dead,

It all will fall, each of us dying alone, as forgotten men, lost angels rotting in unholy graves

 As the palaces burn above the sky, the earth descending beneath

 Another nail set for pushing,

 In your case, perhaps the final, in the coffin,  a place you once called home.

Hurry and decide, the hourglass, it empties quick,

 Swifter yet, is the faded line, that withered thread, keeping us entwined,

Let us arise again, let us rekindle youth,

 Do not force my lips, to remind your ears

The damage the lies of autumn revealed” 

You are correct in this assumption, but do not travel back that far,

Do not make me retrace, all the steps we've wandered from,

Do you forget so easily, Do you not remember Kansas City?




Never, did my brother's tongue lay dormant before me; A nuance reserved for prey, the last words they would not hear.  Apparently it has reached that point...

So it’s clear then; Your foot desires placement upon my throat,

If that is your wish, then be done with it, crush the larynx mute,

I’ve nothing left, nothing in me worth to give,

Look at me, standing lame before you now,

I am pathetic, really it all is now, 


To think of those men, those warriors, we both once were,

Those Gods could not be defeated, yet we cast them aside, 


All because of embers, the ashes at her wake

“We swore as brothers, never again, to speak of Grace, ”

Yes, yes we did, and now you insist a reclamation of those thrones,


Like these puppet shells, can be willed away so easily, 


No! I won’t help you now. I cannot, no longer do I know how, 


This Was all I could muster, before salty remnants burned down my face,

With lamenting swagger, all pacing ceased.  A somber pause to lift his head:

“What I’ve become is undesirable considering all notions prior.  Was it a poor life choice?

I do not know, however, Incessant whining will not return those years.

We were men of honor, living  by code, a creed between man & god; kin to kin,

Do you remember the simple pleasure, in waking early, providing more time for the kill?

Omerta, you know all this, it lives within, but listen, listen now, 

We may be lesser men than our elder selves would boast to be,

However, we are still mighty, mightier than those to perish if we fail or refuse to try.

The two of us possess a unique skill-set; we are well versed, in the subtle art of murder

and persuasion, we know full well, how to blacken the cursed sun, and we are most adept 

in the letting of blood.  I extend my arm to you,  one final time.   Let’s take our broken 

hands & ravaged flesh, becoming Contractors once again.  Let us take fever in the passing 

that shall surely come; Let us walk to deaths’ door and beat it down.  I can only wage war 

upon demons, if you stand by my side.  Together, we are invincible, I remember & still 

believe.  We are capable men, able to sow with dead seeds alone,

Purify tainted rivers & swim the drowning safely cross its shore. 

We alone are capable, to issue a warning; to instruct the scribe to pen the tale, convince 

him to ink with his very blood.  Let us now complete our tale.   Dust off your armor, un-

sheathe proud blade, tonight our final vigil begins.

Walk with me in hell, one more time,

Omerta,… Now you’ve got something to die for.”