Houses of Ebony

Retreated in the darkness Of broken fears, Your palace found broken At the bottom of a well. Well, What good is it anyhow? To allow the sweet surge Of electricity and sweat After decades of anticipation. Anticipating the unknown. The most anticipated That has ever been known. Known amidst the leaves Who thrive on sunlight And daily worship When we're worshiping Ourselves. Ourselves, Beneath the shelves Of humanity. Beneath the shells Of humility. Humiliation, Our comfort zone, And every in between. Every twisted, sticky Dream. That serves as a theme For a bloodied torn scene. Torn amidst the reoccurance Of worship. Worship in a million ways. Only to make one stay. A stay that last just a moment, Moments in a second. Seconding the notion of staying At the bottom of a well, In darkness we shall dwell, Our courses turning synchronal And yet again so odd. Audited by a final Augur In cases of lamentation. To tame the lame And lambasted. Upsetting the apple cart. Upsetting the veiled figures In sheer obsidian. Obscene that they too dwell in darkness. Never entering sunlight Or fluorescent tissuelike light. In the limelight of the limited, Of the disabled And the poor. Only to be pitied By the pitiful. Do you wonder why The pilgrims bleed for you? Not because you are Incapable of worshiping The house of the light Or the sick and unwell But because you choose not to. In discretion, You bleed for them too. For when you observe them in praise Not in houses of light do they pray, Not in houses of the omniscient Or rapturous But in houses of the ravens. In houses of the dead And engravened. In houses of the damned Mutilations Of depth and devastation Where putrid, public lynching Still occurs and endures. In houses of ebony.