N o t. A .G a m e
Your footsteps echo through the hall,
You stumble yet you do not fall.
The hush of silence presses down,
From ceiling to upon the ground.
The door creeks open just a niche
Your voice has reached a higher pitch.
A sight you never wished to see,
The members of your family tree.
Shall never see the light of day,
The ones condemned within the fray.
Your heart is beating oh so fast,
Your breathing doesn't seem to last.
You see the knife upon the floor,
The shattered piece, a broken law.
You were never told about one try,
No restart- its then you cry.
Copper, red, it's all the same.
This started out as just a game.
What if it slipped? What if one practice got just a bit too out of hand?
Michelangelo experiences this first hand.