/lit/ - Literature

the anger of quiet slaves

The walled-off cobblestone of castle steep beyond cloudwisp and stars cast long shadows to drift across the molder fields. Fingerbones snapped backward, those slovenly peasants who till blood soil for their betters. Quiet, to whisper in soft voices the conscious echo wardrum beating to brake Kingly neck for that newfound rebellion: fostered animosity with hatred harbored dark heart, the lowly: risen to smash fine like wanton whores those walled cobblestones to rancid rubble, rabble with torch and pitchfork set kindle and pitch to burn those grand homes sheltered now no-longer. Anger-lit backdrop black smoke to bubble k-nightly skyward so the stars are blotted and the cloudwisps turned black.

-- Hang the King! they shout. Hang that living effigy bound scrawny scrawling neck to hoist up the High Post, that he may watch the world built on the backs of slaves be burnt nigh asunder!

And eyes— those eyes made like gold and coal cold disdain for his lessers— examine the flame from that topped High Post, hemp rope wrapped to red-line throat and purple lips; left the flies to feast rot maggots from his opulent visage, that the flies alone become new Kings