The house where they now are was filled with the despot's
Word, there they were herded for the bowls of their blood.

Holier than the holier-than-thou holiest, those pontiffs of
Destruction with gods of many heads, those that people
The wolves at the door of the house of the condemned.

Its gothic nature cannot present innocence, not that,
Nor justification, no more than all tyrannies can,
As it hurls its machine of war at the walls, the doors,
At the windows of the house of the condemned.

The terror of the wolf that bares its fangs at the door
Of the house of the condemned is not your terror, and as
Much as is protested neither is it ours, yet it is still implicit,
We are yet its associates, even so are the unwilling.

Whose is the false god and whose is the idol that
Perverts and alters facts, where is the mirror that tells
Half a truth to the viewer at the door, at the house
Of the Condemned

B.F.WarrenİAugust 2007