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Cold as ice,
Too all but one,
Because she has an idea of what ive done.
The Blood i spilled,
and those ive warmed,
Some More than anyone will ever know;
Though there hearts still beat,
Unlike those ive placed below.
They Know the scars,
That all i seem too come across have surived.
Those touched by those who carry the evil.
But yet, still i feel guilt, Though it is new too me,
Because in my sickness Of the mind
I Had No control of all reason,
Nor the thought of good,
Only the darkness that hauted my mind,
But Now that is apart of me,
accepted, not hiden.
For my Thoughts are clear.

So i think Of those who Ive held dear
And of the places those poor souls,
now lay and rot, Lost to there mothers tears.
And the good words of the priest.
But again i wonder, If i shall ever pay;
For those deeds, that are long since behind me.
But that i doubt, For Who really knows, where those bodys lay?
in there un-marked graves, and miss-shapen tombs.
in the lands i my-self blessed with blood.
Not I, any-longer.
For the memorys of then are lost unto me.
Behind the mist threw which i shall never see,
Into the Darkness that binds me.
My acts of evil, lost with the childhood from which they sprang,
But then again, Who but her, really would believe me if i told them?
Who but her, would believe;
This man who'd soon as die for a friend,who had fallen in the street,
as hand away all he had too help them in the little way it could,
Had taken lives of those he once loved and held most dear,
For the fun of the idea.
But i guess thats a question, Better left un-answered.