I wonder to whom I owe this pleasure Of some distorted story line In some unholy scene of bloodless torture As if some common pretentious wannabe Has reigned over me like a troubled god. When you pull that rusty blade Aim for the heart Do not take your time with it But make it quick, painful, angry Just don’t keep me in the dark. For you may find when the blade comes down That it’s not some whimpering dog you find Laying in a ball, waiting… But the keeper of hundred blades like that one In a box not unlike the one you gave. A smile, a jeer, some fortuitous deflection And it’s off, the game is over The warrior stands and eyes the sullen wound Licks the blood that begins to rain The taste reminds him of who he was. He stares at his attacker And a sense of dread befalls him The hand once trusted now stole the life from him The blade its simple tool As he falls to his knees and begs his soul to leave. But there are no tears to cleanse him Or cries in the night to raise his humanity Only the clean cut of a story told The crusted blade reflects a distant star That once had lit his way. So now a choice To fight true or give up to something new. We shall see. But to a truth he remains a slave To the lie he remains a curse And to both he remains…alive.