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death of the screaming
I watched the old man as he stood. He glided, walked, removed his hood,
Toward the doorway, stalked the priest, but stopped to witness the boy, dreaming.
There he lay, so still and quiet. But the old man didn't buy it.
The old man could not figure why it was easy to be reaming
The young child's mind, altering his dream, as it came teeming
From his mind. He was screaming.
The young child's nightmare burst out into the air. Then the devout
Priest stepped into the room. The old man turned, felt the redeeming
Idea of the Priest's ghastly death. He quenched the thought of the free breath,
Escaping the Priest's lips. Streameth forth his blade, with light gleaming
Off its edge, as it pierced the Priest's chest. The old man turned, beaming
Forth pleasure. The boy was screaming.
He went unto the little boy, picked him up like a little toy.
The boy awoke and thanked the man for releasing him from dreaming
Of that evil priest, whose conduct destroyed all faith. Often ducked
By everyone, the Priest's conduct was horrific. The dreaming
Of the boy was a nightmare of the priest. Murder was redeeming
For the priest. All stopped screaming.