Here I stand, blood not my own.
You with your morals, fear at what I condone.
They lay around me so still as the dead.
And they are.
How many you accuse. 100? 1000?
But you don't ask why, You don't see.
Blinded by the image, confused by my soul.
How can I do this, you ask. Cleave these lives whole.
Take my hand, be not afraid.
There's reason in the deepest Chaos.
© "Raksha" RJ Boettcher 2002
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