From an ancestry long forgotten,
Into the land of his own scorched earth,
The one he burned himself,
Behind the mountains of his own terror,
There stands a man.
With his blades high,
And terror storming in his mind,
There he screams.
And with each swing of the blade,
And with each thrashing of the soul,
And with his splatter of blood,
Swirling in the air from his blade,
He stands, frozen, and yet agile.
There he stands, the man we call
The man who creates his own purgatory,
The man who carves his own heaven,
The man who fuels his own hell.
The man who fights the proverbial truth
Etched in grooves of his palms.
When the dust settles,
There he stands,
Under the sunken sky,
An epitome of you,