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The Silent Hill

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The silent hill has no resting place anymore

It is as loud and crowded as that other

The one where the noises overshadow the quiet places of rest

But on the hill there’s no resting

None more for the wicked

Than for the good

It is a place of torment

Where are heard even exquisite laments

The dead, the good days gone, and those in disrepair

There the shout of heroes lost to the turning of ages

Echo past the tormenting crackle of mountains

Prepping carefully laid plans in their final stage

There are no heroes there anymore

Just masqueraders weaving lore

They wear lofty capes and clothes of white

Till time comes

And the stains of desire washes purity undone

Revealing allegories of light that shone

Once, long ago to alleviate the stains of a score

But that was another mask absconded

Through the forked tongue of fables

With skillfully crafted plots and effigies

That quietly opened chasms

Gurgling names of children, men, and women not yet born

All toiling in their time to get back to the silent hill

To toil at madness and remain there still

On the silent hill is a road

Skillfully forged by the same old

Arms that wrote of a resting place on the hill

Dotted with temples with gleaming white walls

Displaying what would once pass for innocence

With wagging tales as if to Wolf

On the land to the brink of its borders

They wish to spill blood on the silent hill

They wish to spill blood on the silent hill

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