I Am Not What I Am

Bone is not bone, but shards of ammunition
And to exhale is not life, not if necessary. The puppeteer; twisting strands of hair like needles, the deceitful master of execution that manipulates their tendons from the dark,      
To smile, bullet-breathed, from whose hand no silver is ever fired,    
But still skin be stained a bloody cross from the crucifixion of such an innocence. A whisper of kerosine, like gunpowder to the embers of envy, vivid in his vengeance  
With a soul frozen, hardened in cruelty, that still burns like whiskey on an open flame,   
Some murderous creature with delicate hands- the devil himself with the eyes of an angel, tearing apart foundations of existence to expose the intentions beneath,   
Swears by the daylight that he will honour their spirits, curses blasphemous evil under the stars  
Silent as poisoned vapour, thrice as deadly,    
He strikes like a serpent in the night, 
And by dawn it is too late.