I hate this feeling; I hate its source; and I hate myself for allowing it to persist. Life is the most precious gift of all; born of passion. But what darkness that compels me to give it away; whether abruptly, or the slow sting of this curse, compassion for my enemy, where there is none for me. Who shall nourish a lonely heart; that while this skeleton possesses meat, my enemies shall feast. She tells me that I can do this. But the spirit is a heavy price to pay; that I shall gain what at the price of my life? Then when it is finally over; when there is no more meat to be taken; will I then rest in peace, or shall my bones also be pulled apart? Heavy eyed; yet I look upwards to my Lord in prayer; then forward towards the mist. Only faith sustains me here; for I feel no love. Now step aside! For this skeleton still has meat!