Masks

The masks run deep

He wears many standing there

Everyone else around him wears one

They don’t pretend they're what they aren’t

Theyre heathens, they’re killers

they’re wicked, they’re evil.

They're murderers, no they’re animals

they're not even people.

Days of sacrifice that he’d spent

just to get to this altar

not once did he tremble

and never did he falter

Stuck in a den of monsters who chant

They sing “blood“ for their God

Soon his mask will come off

He watches the altar from beyond

He thought back on what he’d done

how the masks added up

was it worth it to save her

had he lost who he was?

The dagger is raised high

Our hero draws his gun

His heart pumping as he aims

“It would only take one”

He’d lied, and he’d stole.

Hurt and he’d sacrificed,

his missing finger a testament

carved in his shoulder, the mark of an acolyte.

His life for hers

A trade worthy in his eyes

he squeezes back the trigger

the man holding the dagger dies

Everyone watches him now,

into a corner he’s backed,

waving the gun as if he’s crazed

warning them not to attack

then whispers from the crowd

but there lips move not

and whispers in his head

whispers that come only from the dead

“shut up!“ he shouts

as his head starts to spin

he raises his gun

and fires again

“Agent Marcus Grant

FBI”

he makes his way to the altar

to the girl, and the man he made die.

Marcus took her hand in his left

and held the gun in his right

the crowd of masks watched them Back out of the church

and into the night

still whispers in his head

but one less mask on his face

to the girl a hero

to the others a disgrace

why did he hear them still now miles away

would the voices every leave

or in his head would they stay

perhaps he had gone to far

this time he wore too many masks

the carving in his shoulder to remind him of all his wicked tasks.

He did things he promised to never do

though innocent blood he himself never shed

he could still feel responsible for those The cult painted red.