Poem: Redundant Self

I think I should have let someone know
But it would not have quenched the fire.
What good could it have done for a dead man walking,
The fallen or the ones on a funeral pyre?
I am the reaper, but instead I rake the leaves,
Of the men that came before, of the ones who died before.
I’m weak now, or so it seems.

I am the man who comes in day because he fears the nightmares tread,
Or the dreams that draw me in, or the dark thoughts that plague my head.
You believe my secret stories for they would not lie to you
For their tongues are tied times over, their tongues lie and then they waver.
Their tongues are dead upon the ground.

I think I might have let them ponder, let them sit within my wake.
I think I might have let them wander, let them wager for my sake.
I think I might have let them barter for their life, perhaps their soul
But I think I might have freed it and taken complete control.

I am the one who knows no secrets left to haggle for my heart.
I am the one who takes from others that which I myself cannot impart.
I am the one who sleeps so soundly for the drug is heavy in my veins
For the emptiness inside me will not let me sleep away my pains.

Believe me, I would have hurt you, I think I might once have struck you first.
The blood was spilled before you knew the ancient battle was rehearsed.
I am the man who praised your slaughter for the world was black and grey.
Some crimson decoration was the order of the day.

I think I ought to have let one know
Who they faced in the battle frenzy,
Who they thought they could deceive
Was in fact the darkest entity,

Consumed by the darkness leant me.

I was a burden to your lands and the houses that I burned
And I pillage all your treasures that you fought for and you earned.
Believe me I do suffer; but the tricks are old to me
And I harbour no ill intent for the one who dares to strike at me.

See my cloaks flies in the wind and I see you shiver in the cold.
Can you hear the haggler harking? Do you know your soul’s already sold?
I was the man who’d make you scream before you ever hit the ground.
Even now the stairs are clearing; won’t you follow this old rogue down?

I trace my fledgling footsteps; the shadows infiltrate my eyes,
Towards the torture of my sanctuary and its abyss
With its endless space for wondering
What brought me down to this?

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