This poem is somewhat representative of my character, who will be a monk of some kind. I have yet to work out the details.
He treasures each life he takes,
Mourning the destruction of
That which is sacred.
He commits great sins
In the name of the greater good,
Hoping that the deaths of few
Bring joy to many.
He takes life so that he may give it.
Such is the paradox.
His feet are sore from his travels,
His body is tired,
But his soul even more so.
He raises his bloodstained hands
And screams to the heavens,
Feeling the pain of every death
He has wrought.
Such is the torment.
He continues to fight,
Hoping, praying, waiting for the day
When it is no longer necessary,
When the peace he so fervently seeks
Is finally known.
Then he may wash the blood
From his weary hands
And the sins from his blackened soul.