Post by Lady Idril on Apr 26, 2006 1:55:27 GMT -5
The Man In The Mask
Lo! To the world long uncontested!
Deemed to doom without question.
All lives are diverted, ashen distention
All save for one, the last remaining hope.
The man in the mask.
Whose hunger for vengeance sought
Without fear, feeling or connection
Crimson red blood-flow, his only desire.
Those of his enemy, vile and dire.
His life a game, they said, of cat-and-mouse.
After his world had come crashing down
And he brought forth Vendetta, the very word,
The letter V, his credential.
Though life as once writ no longer be,
Sly pink lips on silken alabaster
Always fixed, a plastic smile
Not in mocking contempt to his pitiful victims
But to the few who dared hold hope inside
While fear played at heartstrings now weakened
By war and turmoil, loneliness.
But few they were, and far between.
And not a one dared speak his name.
His letter. V.
The man in the mask.
The terrorist, his most common identity
Given by those so blinded
By colours of red dynamite.
By death to the deserving
And life to the innocent.
As such, when last the mask fades,
The man behind it as cold as
The Violet Carson held in his hand,
They will not recognize.
They will not weep for the man in the mask.
Nor for the world that has long been rejected.
The world he emancipated; the dire connection.
The world that will no longer have
The mask’s protection.
Lo! To the world long uncontested!
Deemed to doom without question.
All lives are diverted, ashen distention
All save for one, the last remaining hope.
The man in the mask.
Whose hunger for vengeance sought
Without fear, feeling or connection
Crimson red blood-flow, his only desire.
Those of his enemy, vile and dire.
His life a game, they said, of cat-and-mouse.
After his world had come crashing down
And he brought forth Vendetta, the very word,
The letter V, his credential.
Though life as once writ no longer be,
Sly pink lips on silken alabaster
Always fixed, a plastic smile
Not in mocking contempt to his pitiful victims
But to the few who dared hold hope inside
While fear played at heartstrings now weakened
By war and turmoil, loneliness.
But few they were, and far between.
And not a one dared speak his name.
His letter. V.
The man in the mask.
The terrorist, his most common identity
Given by those so blinded
By colours of red dynamite.
By death to the deserving
And life to the innocent.
As such, when last the mask fades,
The man behind it as cold as
The Violet Carson held in his hand,
They will not recognize.
They will not weep for the man in the mask.
Nor for the world that has long been rejected.
The world he emancipated; the dire connection.
The world that will no longer have
The mask’s protection.
