Tell me if this is already tilled ground: (for any reason)




Candlelit corridors
In this most ancient of chapels
There he stands
The loathed blasphemer

From the shadows
He is watched
And he knows
He has transgressed

Away from the cameras
In this prison of fear
He feels alone
Shuffling down the hall

But he knows
What he has invoked
And he is not alone
Marbled eyes watch him

He knows that bodies move
And robes stir in the corners
Murals come to life
Painted heads turning to watch

Statues in the dark loft
Look down with judgement
Pillars stand unforgiving
Wicks burn still in anticipation

The marble does not betray
The footsteps of the inquisitors
Sent to end the heresy
The candles dim in assistance

Black hooded robes
Dark-leathered hands
Hard boots falling softly
On the polished stone

The transgressor knows
There are those who would kill
To protect the peace
Those who know these places

His sins are most vile
His life in in danger
His path streches tenfold
The shadows pull inwards

Behold the man
Stifling his conscience
Against the bend
Of what he knows to be certain

He has reached the end of the hall
This place has deceived him
Turning his back to the wall
Not having faith in the stone behind him

The room has lost all its length
He observes the unlit candles
That just twenty paces before
Had glowed orange in indignation

Ten boots step from the shadows
Hooded men in perfect unison
Mortals they may be
But hidden from all critical eyes

To have them stand before him
Sent a chill through the man
For he knew only the greatest insult
Would call these brothers to the hunt

He sensed the sadness
Of these angered souls
This was a personal injury
And he felt their veiled eyes

He had not been told any tales
But he know who these men were
Living in secret places
In their cherished temples

They were above worldly contempt
They kept the silence
That was their purpose
And they embraced it

This was something
No ordinary man could know
For to know their presence
Would make reserved even the garrulous

He never believed
In superstition or stories
But at the end of a life
End blurs with end

A metallic rasp
Ten long swords
Perfectly trained
Their form was flawless

A circle of shadowed faces
He fell to his knees
Swords pointed inwards
Steady and patient

He felt the brotherhood
Between these men
And he thought of his blasphemies
How horrid and treacherous

Master craftsmenship
Were these swords
Words wrought in steel
These were crafted with passion

They struck with precision
A clean death
No more was needed
To secure his passing

Back to their secret ways
All retreated into dark
Stone doors slid away
Far off in the shadows

Dark blood spreads
Over the marbled floor
But the marbled faces
Still stare