You are not what you will become.
This is the difference, between you and I.
There wasn't much left of me.
Though I've used the pieces to rebuild this monster you now see.
It's a dark day when the torn become remade.
As whole as the moon, I've come to repay.
Like the horizon swallows the sun, I shall remove you.
I may not have created you, but I know the key to destroy.
This night there are foul clouds above us, mistress.
And these clouds shall not block the moons light that threatens to rip
apart your existance.
O how I regret what I have become.
O but how I shall embrace what has occured.
There is nothing left of what I once was.
Only painful memories, tarnished doves.
I shall see this to the end, and make fit what I decide.
It isn't hard to view through the lamb's eyes.
You are not what you will become, is what she said.
O but Mistress, I have the shovels to bury my dead.


Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Ultio, in the year 535 AD.