Masochistic Sanctuary

Wading in the placid mist,
of my memory's demise,
feeling in my clench'ed fists,
my hatred but surmise.

Running stale within my veins,
to slow my haggard heart,
your face but lets with my past pains,
the nightmare of my soul to start.

My body's masochism forced,
from within my very lungs,
the waters of my anger's well,
me into blackened waters plunge.

A fateful battle shielded,
within this empty shell,
madness that to end it's course,
leaves me charred within this hell.

The words seem to escape me,
as my nails dig through the dirt,
the blackness in my empty eyes,
with my life's line do flirt.

My soul seems to escape me,
but the anger rips my flesh,
a scarlet resolution,
one death never as fresh.

Now with my body rigid, cold,
a familiar battle free'd,
the fallen not their remarks with held,
but gasp: "your sickness is your sanctity..."