"Wow, what a mansion."--Albert Wesker RE1
Gothic mansion, where every warrior lost it,
head, heart, and soul--as Faust did,
there walks a scientist who's blood is acid,
with glasses that turn to shade--death reactive.
" Who dares touch my holster" he says bombastic.
as walls evaginate victims, send out vines,
it is from Jesus' in the crowd--Mathew--his lines.
the sight of thorax, stinger and fang,
humping the slain,
do not phase him, for he is phase-less,
turn off receptors of pain, and all is pain-less.
howling night forest, awakens the staff,
as if they sleep facedown in saltwater tides,
whale moaning, as if harpooned--
going to lonely depths to die.
Sit down at the bar, pull scotch from its coffin,
on counter, rest pump and python,
do not think of the things you will die from.
there are three darts in the bullseye,
in William Tell style,
but the board is fashioned after an atom,
with electrons in orbit,
the numbers are the human genome,
and a surgical marksman has scored it.
He is Wesker, and this mansion is his tester,
blood and bone is both colors of his litmus,
horribles awaiting in dark room pay witness.
his muzzle flashlight's rooms with hot spark,
entry beats claw swing, shades now clear in dark.
they say in total black silence, one will go crazy,
from the sound of their heart.
but "For this heart, to close within,
you must first get past this firing pin."
as he vaunts over dying beast,
and darkness returns to his shades,
from moon light through window,
reflecting knifes on wall from moon in wane.
he slicks back a loosed strand,
locks the door behind him, and continues with his plan.
" In my father's mansion are many rooms,
" I'll go prepare a room for you." he mocks, as he walks,
with parabellum hollow points and acid round glocks.
This is his mansion, he is Achilles loosing knees,
he is warrior and scholar, a student of Thucidydes.
team-mates out air holes in jungle boot bleed,
blood seeping through;
olive drab uniform now fatigue.
paint the walls black,
with dead flesh backsplash,
or gun and nerves jam, then die a ripping death,
smell a cannibals breath.
Be it known, the man in black and strap,
laughs off exposed rib cage slats,
with only a scrape to his pistol belt.
They rip, and stretch, and moan, half human half beast.
as the cook, in mansion kitchen, cooks his guts,
bowels on cutting board, butcher knife making cuts.
moaning, and crying, yet appetite never dying.
Enter the man in reactive shades,
Picture a alligator, calm, age old in the everglades.
One in the brain, and none in the chest,
those extra shots for rooks, without prowess.
" Wesker, you'll pay for this treachery," invoking Karma,
but the man in black measures her tears as he harms her.
So all that enter mansion portal,
and reach the basement, before becoming morsel,
finally catching up with Wesker,
no more trail of labotomized minds,
and jaws and eyes in epileptic shock,
from a calm trigger squeeze of glock.
Face to face with the master of the saxon race,
mastering gunpowder under the scope,
and you hear the hunters off distant,
primal howls and hissing.
Listen to what the man in black says,
the mortal contest is over,
and he has a virus to offer,
" Die here, and your death will be longer than your life,"
says the man, who's shooting hand is the reapers scythe.
" But live with this virus, and you will never die."
but watch the sun burn out in the sky."
You can refuse him, and face the nightmare creatures alone,
adding your skeleton to the calcium of mansion stone.
or take the virus that invaded the first cell,
making 'other men' the meaning of hell.
" Come decide, lest I go prepare a room for you".--
From powder burns, your tears are black,
eardrums ring from screaming contest:
chrome python against giant asp.
shoulder numb from combat loading shotgun,
thumbing shells straight to chamber--
blood in boots: not much fight left.
your friends are dead, and you answer,
" I rather die forever, to rid the world of cancer."
In this mansion are many tombs,
moaning, crying, self inflicting rooms.
© Copyright 2016 Kaithe. All rights reserved.
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