By burning waters, and smoldering bridges,
I await the genesis of our animosity.
Make the move that gives me permission to strike,
make the move that will bring about your end.
Near draws the line that which I advise you to never cross.
Though to my eyes comes the image of your sprinting legs.
It would seem, that through your veins flows pure pestilence,
and that you wish to bring upon me, nuisances by any cost.
Good God, such a fool bound for my throat,
knowing not the patient blade that waits.
Honor averts it's eyes, as your charge draws to an end.
It wishes this good and done, just as I.
A swift jerk of my arm to your direction,
and make you, a last descent to the ground below.
Then burden leaves my shoulders,
as life outward, pours from your filthy heart.