Burnt to coal, wrought and engraved in the flames,
Hardened in the ticking clock of all time,
The fire ignited by perilous aims,
Ashes laying collecting dust and grime,
Its cooling into solid hardened ice
In the desolate, frigid, windswept, planes.
Cruelly spurned by the role of his life's dice,
Impervious to another's sharp pains,
He seeks to warm his own frozen stone heart.
Unhindered by the normal moral qualms
That beat upon those who posses a heart.
From his kill drenched are his bloody palms.
His heart has long since ceased to beat.
He roams the shadows, silent, discreet.