Lost are the perishing, care less of dying,
Caught up in pity from outside and within, slowly digging the grave;
Weeping is the erring one, as good as fallen,
They are of nothing, nothing to save.

Though they are slighting them and themselves, still they are waiting,
Waiting to show the penitent feeling in them but they never receive;
Pleading earnestly for freedom, pleading gently,
Hope that one day they'll finally leave.

Can they liberate the perishing ones? Cared enough to slay the captors,
Fortunate are those who are patient,
Hapless are the ones who exploit their vigour and vitality in desperation to escape;
Falling in fruitless instances coming from circumstances of a void consequence.

Neither survives, and no one one knows,
Until the body is found rotting to bones,
Where rats and roaches feast and excrete;
The last remembrance of their defeat.

The ones who watch the carnage pile up,
Carry the weight of a thousand dead bodies on their shoulders.
Blood stain their hands, their lives in a cup,
Future going no further.
They tell no one, a dirty secret they keep,
Terrified the blame will be on them, the horrors they'll see;
So they live with the ghosts and keep them buried deep.

Reluctant are they who wish to run,
To put down their blades and the evil fun,
Hide away until all is done;
A sickening feeling left to pun.

But alas there was non,
Who ever lived to see the sun,
When they bow their heads and run;
What was game to them became another man's fun;
The day the hunters become the hunt.

And so it was and forever be,
Unless a man who ran had ever lived,
But in that world no one's free,
They forget nothing nor do they forgive;
Hidden away are the perishing's pain and wails,
The world knows nothing for all the men who try to escape fails;
And dead men tells no tales.




© WarningKoala