I am the assassin dressed in black,
Who masquerades behind a frozen glance;
My path is long, and never shall turn back,
For death’s pale face is my own countenance.
Beyond all hope, and far beyond all care,
I forge my wall of perfect-made pretense—
For after all, I’m never really there,
So what care I for things that must make sense?
Whatever novel creature once was I,
The memory of is lost to fire’s kiss,
And whether that same creature once could cry
I cannot say, for naught exists but this:
Defined forever by the soul I lack,
I am the assassin dressed in black.
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