Today, I shot twenty men, then told them salvation would be their end. What a mess.
Scattered bits and pieces of life, shattered across a star-crossed sky. I am alive.
I look upon their lifeless faces, shapes losing form, decaying, aging. Let them ascend.
To sell my soul for gold, a story told a thousand times, than told once more. I cry.
Bounties hurt, for torment burns with twice the ire when metal meets fire. Observation.
Serenade me, silent wails of freshly made human carpachio, newborn ghosts. Deny me.
As I walk away, the weight of a thousand souls takes its place, on my back. I, end.