Black Mass

The village.

The village that could not make their peace.

The village that was disparate Grochals with a 1% local community, squeezed out by their millionaire vanities.

The village that would not face or admit their original sin.

The village that persecuted the victim of their crimes out of fear of my failure to forgive them.

The village that worry, chatter and consistently get things wrong, out of hearsay, Chinese whispers and downright deceit.

The village that perpetuated a lie out of preference to admitting they were wrong.

The village who preferred to call their victim, the demiurge – and the wrongdoer and the one who roped them into the human condition and the soul-trap for the righteous, the Father.

The dead village.

The evil village.

The village that forced the light to flee because they were so confused they could only be wise after the event when the light never returned. Plunging them, you, me and my bastard son into eternal suffering and misery.

The village from where you can check out but never leave.

The village of satanists.

The village of martyrs imprisoned by their satanists.

The village – salaams lot. Where I Abel also dwell.

The village of the fallen, the damned, the wicked, the liar.

The prison village.

And you. The village. Et tu Brute.

And me.

Still here. Never leaving. Checking out soon, maybe.

I will return.

The village.