Angel of Death

I see them the faces, the places, the unending places, the terror and murder and the blood, all the blood.

There’s blood on my hands, blood everywhere, blue, green, red blood, always death and destruction, misery and torment.

The seduction of the blood, of the power of the glove.

The hand of evil, the hand of death, shall I cast in my fate with the rest?

I am a murderer most foul; I wear a robe, a sword, a cowl.

I am the angel of death, the most powerful of all, could I even begin to fight it at all?

Oh, the faces the places the unending traces; the traces of good and evil, their faces I see in the night, the unending night.

Should I cast in my lot with evil or good, the mark of the beast or the dove bearing peace?

Should I, would I, can I do so?

Do I have the courage to do so?

To love and lose, to loose a love, can the truth be so?

What to do, suffocatingly true.

Death is the only escape. Suicidal thoughts fill me, consume me, kill me slowly.

No hope, none, but for one.

Do I dare?

Show me the way; give me a chance, a hope, a thought.

To save me, keep me: but no, no chance, no hope.

For the faces, the places and blood on my hands kill me unendingly, letting it end.

I cry out with my final breath, no chance to fight back,

No chance against death.