Musings of a Madman

The Cold North

He rode on, with 3 knives in his back,
The north is where he wanted to go,
Humanity? All of that he now lacked.
His heart got numb, and cold, it was snow.

At the great crossroad was where we met,
From the east, I the light, shining in sky,
I stood at at crossroads, as he came from the west,
The darkness, was emanating from his eyes.

Wounded was he, as he showed me the knife,
Fresh blood seeped out, from the depths of the flesh.
Don't bother, it shalt not take my life,
He spoke to me, sensing my want to save him from death.

6 feet deep, you cannot remove it, neither I,
These knives, are nothing, but the same,
All that drives me on, is the simple plans of mice,
And men too, I, no more a lion, a toothless one tamed.

This fire, of my soul, burned on for days,
There exists nothing now, except my plans,
Everything within me, everything, now razed.
An empty shell am I, a hollow man.

To the cold north, I ride, into the night,
I seek death, the trimmer of the sheep,
Only he, he can take out these knives,
Death will comfort me, in his cradle will I sleep.

And so he rode on, to the cold hard north,
He rides on, seeking the cold embrace of death,
3 knives in his back, when love was all he sought,
His weary soul will be put to rest.