the mercinary

a poem about a man with no one but his sword and his ever distant mind

creatured lurk within my thoughts,
createing confused swirling lots,
things that stir peaceful air,
people that have pretended to care,
hidden behind my shaded sheild,
a sword keen my mind weilds,
finding safety in secluded walls,
and sanctuary in deserted halls,
nothing gained from nothing tried,
but through it all many have died,
tears of blood stain paling cheeks,
as the dying soul weeps,
held in the arms of a sedistic puppeteer,
i find more ends drawing near,
i smirk at the thought,
and smile at my prey,
i am the mercinary and i take useless life away