The Frenzy

The street was dark, by darkened footsteps trod,
My step was light upon the grime, my purpose rather not.
For I was in the service of a wicked and grim god,
Who was mostly all-concerned with death and rot.
But the wicked are not bowed by guilt and pointless shame,
So I was light upon my feet, my hands were quick and strong.
I passed some shapes, their ends and means the same,
But without the understanding that we're wrong.
We're wrong and we do wrongs,
We're the monsters in the songs,
And we do not belong,
so come along.

And so we began to swarm, in the darkened street.
A swarm of men, I think you'll find, is quite a sight.
A school of small piranha fish around a slab of meat,
And when the meat has names, it tries to fight.
The frenzy may seem as though it won't arrive,
But it washes over the mob with great haste,
And though the meat endeavours to survive -
Well. Such a pity. Such a waste.
We're wastes, and we make waste.
And what a change of taste,
But they can be replaced,
Without a trace.

The sun won't rise - not for them, and not for us.
In punishment for the horror on our hands.
To think that we are monsters? Ludicrous!
I do not think you seek to understand.
For you condemn our place in all your hearts -
A bacchic wish, a cutting blade, a scream.
The frenzy that descends is expression of art,
A bloodlust, given form from formless dreams.
We're dreams and we can dream,
We're violently redeemed,
And we aren't as extreme,
As we seem.