Crimson red are the eyes of the man
whose mind is lost to the madness. 
Oh, all the death I have sown.
Now is the time for the harvest.  
I have been running for so long
from the inevitable.  
Now it is time to turn and face the reaper.  
What great a kindness will he do for me,
that my shoulders should be relieved
of the burdens that they carry.
Come now and answer once and for all
these sighings of my soul.  

Sweet respite, though but for a moment.  
I know what I’ve got coming.  
I know what I deserve.  
I know the penalty of my sentence. 
I have never been a good man, 
nor am I now, so broken, any better.  
Oh, how fragile is this life
in the hands of those who hold it,
and how quickly it turns to dust.  

So what of this life,
and so what of the brief and passing days
that I saw the sun cross the sky in its arc,
and the moon forever chasing
her fleeing lover across an endless sky?
What further death must I die
that it should become another among others?
How ends this suffering if not in death?

And what courage or sheer exhaustion
must I find within myself
that I should surrender this chase
and once and for all stop my running?
What selfless will can be found in me
to forfeit by choice my own survival?
I am terrified of what I must succumb to,
but you whisper in my ear
that there is purpose in my suffering,
that you have a plan for me,
a story written before time began
and though not yet written at all.  

I am without strength of heart 
that I should continue on,
yet I won’t stop until my legs buckle below me
and I tumble for the last time to the ground.  
My will is broken as my body carries me forward. 
Soon that too will be broken,
and when it is the pursuit will come to its end. 
What it is that you must do,
please do it quickly.