I live on the edge of a sword.
Pride\'s pressure and primordial trepidity
Pull the puppet\'s strings
As he dances while dead inside
With feet made bloody by this senseless balance.
With each rest, a silent prayer that I rise not again;
Each breath I beg to be the last.
The sword will never leave my side, and neither will the word,
For I beckoned the priests of death,
And so they armed me.
Knowing I have the capacity
To relieve myself of this piss-stained life
When things go \"too wrong for too long,\"
I perform my macabre ballet upon these bloodied feet,
Smiling ever so slightly, betraying not the dread knowledge I hold.