The saint has been martyred.
Choked by the very hands that used to point fingers at him.
His last breath escaping his neck.
Kissing his lips a final goodbye.
As tentacles of horror wrapped around and gripped his spine.

He was a bastard of war.
The blood was spilt in his eyes.
Raised petting hellhounds with plenty bones to play fetch.
He became a man.
Chained by fate to the doors of death’s whorehouse where he was forced to watch his brides dance on embers till they coughed up their organs and turned into pyres of rattling corpses.

Conscience became just another arbitrary concept.
Pride became just another pot to piss in.

He sang to his sleep a thousand lullabies as he kindled the flames of his rage with burning eyes.
Vowed to melt his chains away.
He donned a thousand disguises.
He poured his still-beating heart on his vices.

A recluse beyond timelines.
The unadorned hermit.
The king nothing.
Daisy-chained in the unshorn locks of destiny.
He wishes to rest in peace.
There is no rest for the wicked.
Battle-born don’t quest for peace.
He was a bastard of war.
A sinner of ease.
Stuck in his ways: purgatory.
He’s a saint for a wishful disease.
A wish to de-cease.

He sat besides his temper and watched an empty pyre burn.
Both watched the wood crackle as the glow of embers lit up the blood in his eyes with its reflection.
He slid a silver knife across his palm and drew another line of fate in blood.
He moved into his sanctuary.
A shrine of wine and silver, velvet and leather.
He pondered around at his aftermath.
He pointed his finger at everything, but it all ended up pointing in the same place.
He pointed at himself in the mirror.
‘There’s no preservation of a martyr this time’:
He said as his heart married his knife.

The saint has been martyred.
Choked by the very hands that used to point fingers at him.
His last breath escaping his neck.
Kissing his lips a final goodbye.
As tentacles of horror wrapped around and gripped his spine.