For eight hours past have I sat,
Alone in my chambers,
Restless and hoping for some... thing;
Some hope, some desire, which will not readily be realized.
The Devil himself taunts me with his prose.
I scoff.
Then laugh.
For I, the brooding sinner,
Know all too well the path to the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I toil once again in my thoughts of plunder and rage,
Of immortality and glory,
Knowing that they stand yet as a mockery of my own cowardice.
I raise my eyes towards the clock.
Oh Heaven, help me! Bring forth the day!
For my soul sits on the window pane,
Rapping at the glass;
Pleading for redemption while the shadows move,
Like marionettes,
On a somber battle-field, twixt a grave yard and Holy Chapel,
Whose pews are as faded as my faith.
 
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