Untold horrors of the Knights Templar

The eyes awoke and saw the pyre fumes raise the city up around them. Clash the metaphysics of what you believe with the amens of your ancestors as I swiftly react (with a rise of my mind off the pavement) to the pitchfork masses that swarm through the marshes on the seventh day and rape the women so as to bring rains down on the crop fields in their hometown of nowhere. Whatever the prize for redemption, there is no hole deep enough, no trench long enough, no riverbed wide enough to save the monkeys from their mayhem.

I watched from the star-crossed moors of the main land where most of the battles took place in the medieval ages of the Viking warriors and wisdom trees that speak in tongues that no man alive can understand or so they say with their lips crossed and their fits pumping to curse the all night vigils of prayer and foster children. The violence reigns down on the plantations and cremations of innocents, born to a world that spat them back out and walked among them as if god itself gave one people permission to harness another.

The voodoo kings sit in their temples and reach for their cauldrons with cattails surrounding the base of their skills and perceived knowledge from the crows that used to mourn the living and the dead. Vampire calls were surrounded in the twilight by mists and wakings of the undead mannequins with their legs in a tangle of one another and a gift from the Magus.

I felt comfortable here among the medium talents and frost covered muses of Babylon. On a number of occasions the spirits that are unsettled in their new ethers talk in quiet harshness, fast and repeating, they seem to recite all of their past battle wounds and ship wrecked fantasies unfulfilled. I try to keep one ear open to the living that are descended from princes of the riptide, one ear open to the dead and resurrected, and then my mind is free to wonder upon cobblestone sidewalks in London, prisons of traitors and tyrants to the queen, and untold horrors of the Knights Templar. Each story that is believed to be the truth stuck to my skin like tic tak toe on the hottest day of the summer. I never sleep alone. 

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