There's a man hard as a rock, worn soft into his core, his eyes have been torn from what he has seen. His hands ache from what they have done, and the black around his beating heart is a harsh reminder that to our society he is nothing but a bad man.
What are dead tradition does not know and see is the blood that runs Crimson in his veins and I love deep in his soul, for he is a human Spirit played by the concept of a bad past that dragged him down the social ladder to a pit created by the minds of the Dead.
Don't you see the way he loves his children, don't you see how hard he works till his knuckles crack and bleed and how his heart aches for those close to his colorful heart. He is not dark, he is not clear, nor pure but he is everything in between he is a masterpiece torn and worn by The Winds of our world. Shape to the loving rigid soul he is
