Screaming bloody murder
The place is still haunted by the people who died here.
The people who were tortured to death or insanity
About things they may not have even known.
That is my collection.
My collection of memories.
Memories of trips all over the world
From the sunny Mediterranean of Italy
To the burning cold passion of England
To cold, icy Montreal
To cool, breezy California
To the frigid water of Maine.
The days of seeing the places I’ve read about
And written about
And longed to see for years.
Where people were murdered for all the wrong reasons
And all the right reasons as well.
The traitors who were never really traitors at all
But she had to get them out of the way.
The ones who threatened to take her crown
And give it to her half-sister, Elizabeth.
The screams can still be heard even after four hundred years
The screams of the tortured and the dying
The laughter as heretics died at the stake
The priest’s words floating over the smoke, over the whole courtyard
It was sadness, but not happiness
That grew in these walls
It was happiness that grew beyond them in the general city
The laughter that soared out of the playhouses and across the Thames
It was every emotion rolled into one.
The shadows of them still haunt these places.
The grace of churches, but not of my religion
Cold water, but still somehow soothing
The frigid Montreal cold, but uncaring
The warmth of California, so relaxingly amazing.
***
Not bitterness, but destruction
Not my memories, but things that really happened
Not what really happened, but what should’ve been
Not just destruction, but killing whether it be in reality or on the stage
Not going back on decisions, but keep forcing through
But somehow still pulling unawares to a place
Where people screamed bloody murder at all hours
Be it day or be it night.