I see you. Sitting there in the mire, locked
        In conversation with yourself. You snap
        At mirrors that show you shell-shocked,
        Slithering, then cover them with a slap.
I hear you. Lamenting of your condition
And raging at Gods. That they gave you pride
Then turned you, spurned you; made you my mission
And just a tool in my belt, a step in my stride.
        Now I’ve come and I catch your reflection
        In my shield and see its glint fascinates
        You and pulls you close to my sickle action
        That now flies at your neck with all my weight.
        <Ssschoomf>
Your poor head lands <thud> and weeps bloody scum
Will any remember you in times to come?