Fists swinging,
Body swaying,
Limbs cleave air,
Emotion vented with force,
Pushed away unritualistically,
Like every other day,
Never to find another channel than the pounding of flesh on flesh and breaking bones and twisted muscle,
Slaves to our own art,
Turned monsters by our worries and sadness
The shadow is not made.
He finds the light and is turned away
His heart not pure enough for their own path, he must forge his own into the night, he is halted only by a thirst for passion, and continues on for need of blood, not to consume or enjoy but to spill and waste, a love of women finds his heart but not of one to hold him true,
Longing shall not hold him back, the stars above don't call him true, the broken sage will not repent until the martyrs time is due
