The Men in Shroud

“The theatre-morgue their resting-bed…”

The Men in Shroud

Mindless voices bellow loud,
Hoarse and parched the nameless crowd.
Faces strained to wheezing blue
In adulation quite undue.
Their hero stands both blind and proud –
And enter then the men-in-shroud.
Spring from scabbards wicked blades,
Serrated edges, brilliant shades.
Silent, they approach their prey,
Slitting knives glide over neighs.
Gurgling sanguine fountains red,
Frothing mouths and throats full-bled.
Only now sense makes it way
Through the void and to their lay,
Languish mixed with terror real,
Now excused are throats to squeal.
On bare flesh, bare blades still scrape.
Thronging masses seek escape.
The shrill, shrill sounds still echo loud,
But nowhere seen the men of shroud,
And rolling on still are the crew,
Sense nothing still as truth seeps through.
The guest good smug nods grinning still,
Sees not the blood that there did spill,
(Thinks the terror subservient thrill
or prostration to his feeble will).
Screaming hoarse, their smiles turned red,
The theatre-morgue their resting bed,
The scene still perfect seems to he
Who stands unwitting by Camera B:
Faces waxen, fading blue –
Adulation quite undue.
Their eyes still wide, their minds still fried,
Their voices quiver still,
Quaver shrill, just as they did,
Ere their throats were smoothly slit.

In fair carnage we lay our scene
To orchestral screams unseen.

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