Mine is the shadow beneath the door
Yours is the blood upon my blade
These are the brothers I betrayed
This is the contract I foreswore
We were brethren—but never more,
For Mother calls to black crusade
I must unmask a masquerade—
Yours is the blood upon the floor.
We were brethren—my brothers lie
All cold, unfeeling, in the dark,
Eyes fixed upon encroaching night
For I have shown them how to die.
This is their blood. I've made my mark.
Mother calls me her dark delight.
A/N: Sonnet, Petrarchan, written in iambic quatrameter.