The Black Sheep of Death

He’s chained to lies he can’t defend.

The fetters weigh upon his chest.

The tatts of truths now seep and blend.

The devil’s ink–his family crest.

He abandons their lies; ruled by decree–

‘tis darkness, his pine box to close.

A glimpse of them, his dead eyes will see.

His family gathers; those sinners rose.

He abhors the claims that taint his crest.

Nails pierce his coffin’s darkness.

They repeat the lies for honor lest–

pretenders adorn his marker wordless.

They gaze upon his mounded grave.

Do they bury guilt of lies and malice?

Nay, they come to hear their maker's clave–

and sip the blood from mercy's chalice.

They still gather thronged in joyousness.

His epithets, nay, or mentioned brief.

Time warps their boards of pawnless chess–

to fell their monarch’s grief.

The bier he’s placed–he can not shun–

while time disrobes his bones.

It does not matter what he’s done–

in death, he feels no stones.

They’ll not steep in tepid requital–

as their souls reek–of satan’s beer.

Evermore, their thoughts are pieced and brittle–

their conscience–never clear.

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January
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