Lyrics 8th Stanza - Ben LaMar Gay

8th Stanza

His exhausted frame tumbled towards the town square
Like a tin can being shoved by bullying gusts of wind
The shocked witnesses in the square watched in slow motion
Praying for a sudden occurance to wake them from this nightmare
But nothing happens
No pinch, no fall, nor slap
Just a bunch of 'Oh my Gods"
Leaking from their quivering lips
Our fugitive walks past the scenes of many crimes
Pains, loves, and joys
The memories that entered his mind voraciously
Soaked up the vivid colors of the present
Leaving the sky charcoal colored and everything else of hue of salmon
He then noticed that he too was the color of his surroundings
A powerful gust of wind pushes him directly in front of the steps of his
redemption
This would be the wood frame house that he and his wife purchased
A few months before their son was born
With every step on the porch
A storm raging in the charcoal skies sens bolts of electricity from the heavens
He keeps stepping
Nevermind the stories he used to hear as a child
About heaven’s assassins coming down from the disgruntled skies in their
chariots of lightning
Our fugitive keeps stepping
He needs to explain everything to his son
Only then the weight of this burden would be lifted
The strong winds carry a sound that made his spine shudder with horror
This would be the howling of six bloodhounds
Sounding like bell tolls from the cathedrals of hell
He can smell the blood of the warden
And hear the saliva crash from his mouth to the ground
Louder than the thunder raging in the storm
He continues to advance towards the door
After two quick knocks on the door his son answers
The great waters of the Tennessee River gush from our fugitive’s eyes
«Baby boy» he whispers
The cocoon gets warm and antennas begin to surface from it’s shell
Simultaneously with a strike of lightning
A single bullet leaves the warden’s rifle and travels through the town square
Restoring the vivid colors that the fugitive’s memory had taken away
The bullet soars perfectly silent with the rhythmic cadence of the heartbeats
And breath
And there goes 500 chains
One, two, three, four, five feet
Six, seven, eight, nine feet
Ten, eleven, twelve feet deep
Our fugitive falls
The burden remains
The warden’s eyes become glassy
He takes a few steps backwards with the barrel of his rifle still smoking
One witness of the shooting
An older, clean cut gentleman dressed in all white laughs
And tips his hat to the warden
And simply says the word «Perfection»
The condescending laugh of the old gentleman resonates in the empty chamber of
the warden’s chest
The warden wipes his eyes dry
Six bloodhounds and baby boy stare at his puzzled face
500 chains