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.