The cold metal guides the sun,
To the eyes of the man,
Covered in black.
Cloaked in a haunting shadow,
He sharpens his blade,
And cleans his tool,
With a rag, so red,
It's ominous in his hand.
Cleaning his blade,
Silently keeping all the blood hidden,
Is his purpose as well as killing.
His last victom, wept and cried,
The screams still there,
In the deep red depths of his eyes.
Knowone can really clean a sinned blade,
And likewise,
The executioner cannot become a clean slate.
