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He stood drenched in blood,
in his arms bearing the heart of a puppeteer.
He had finally won the battle,
or so he thought.
He stared at the string woven heart,
ragged and worn by years of misuse.
Sewn with hate in every stitch,
delicately evil, infectiously impure.
The puppeteer himself,
the epitome of a blind fool;
Was nothing but a broken puppet himself,
a prisonser to his own heart and mind.
Stricken by agnony,
the worrior clutches his chest.
Armor or gold falls to the ground
once host to his many battles.
He cradles the wound, as he once did his lost love.
His soul succumbs to hell.
body lifeless, bearing marks of defeat.
His victorious mind fades through the crowd.
Chest wide open, lifeless and alone,
His heart exposed to the world.
Concealed within his chest, a heart of all seams & stitches, embrioded in bloody yarn,
he was a puppet...victim to the bloodiest show on earth.