Upon Bloodied Feet

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.