Ready For The Slaughter

The thought their deeds would fade, buried beneath time's dust, but wounds remember, etched deep in marrow and breath. Lies were their currency, promises torn like brittle leaves, leaving behind only the hollow echo of broken trust. The built their thrones on bones, feasting while others starved, drinking from cups filled with sorrow, never tasting the bitterness they poured. But the ground does not forget, the wind carries whispers of reckoning, and the hands once bound in silence have learned the weight of steel. The night is heavy with justice, footsteps sound in the corridors of guilt. Their laughter turns to rusted cries- for the butcher's block awaits.