I am not a compassionate fool. Those who are week may be swept away by my little finger alone; they are ants to be brushed from existence. Still, there are some who would pray for my name or beg for my forgiveness; and these do not look into my eyes, but at my feet, and it is these that are most easy to break from their world. And then there are some who would call me form the darkness with lettings of their blood and hopeless gazes that scream of a world crueler than I. I am not a compassionate fool, but I do come when I am called. It is by this measure alone that poor scarred wrists dissolve into ash, by this measure alone that the skin turns to polished white bone, by this measure alone that their tormentors may mourn.

I come riding over the night, the stars are my chariot and the sky does as I might. But I sing through the unrelenting heat of a desert sun, by the rush of white waters, by the cold of a frost and the bite of nature’s own disasters.

All will wait for me.

All but one.
One who looks up at me, and with one lip black and one lip white, whispers, “You crush ants. But you may never kill a giant.” And he is a beautiful, beautiful lie; life, and that is why he escapes me.

But it is only him who can escape me- the ugly truth- death.