In the darkest corner of a heart, lays the lagged and quenched thoughts. The trigger to a sword drawn by tongues, the force to a knife at the throat.
In the depth of that handful sized muscle are the corridors of power in which wars are forged and the seal of fate drawn. These places hold not peace but the very essence sought to defeat purposively in act the agreement of the superior mind.
The heart wants what it wants.
It’s the decisive compulsion that drags the feet to danger and the hands to do wrong. The brain override, control + shift+ alt.
And as the swords you drew at me from thine mouth stabbed me I lost the essence in blood. Spill mine I will spill yours. It’s what my heart wants, it wants blood.
Should your death be confined by my soul’s key, I would be glad.
“Strike them down!”
In riot as these hand go up for the dirge my emotions sang, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
I still did it anyway!
Let the remorse be an issue not for thine heart. The brave man must keep marching to the worlds end.
But then why is it broken?