Soaked in His Own Blood

Soaked in his own blood

Shot with his own gun

Stabbed with his own knife

Beaten in his own fight

Traitorous, murderous, treacherous schemes

Turned against him and painted the sad, bloody scene

A friend turn and snatched the knife from his own belt

While his back turned away, the blow to him delt

He trusted too much and was too certain with vows

He lost sight of the fact that friends can turn to foes

And so there he lays, soaked in his own blood

Pouring out from wounds in a gruesome red flood

And yet, still alive, heart will doggedly pounding

His pulse and his breath still stubbornly sounding

In agony, in pain, and yet not let to die

Staring up with pain-blinded eyes and questioning, why?
Why me? Why my friend? Why must my trust also die?

He gasps and he sputters and draws long, labored breaths.

He feels the ice on his face: feels the cold kiss of death

He smiles, is glad to at last be let go

But relief is far, and traveling slow

There’s time still, to lie in the puddle of red

Think of the betrayal wrought, on the message that’s sent

A good man lies dying, soaked in his own blood

While those that he trusted and those that he loved

Look down on him, and think of his death to be good.

Soaked in his own blood

Shot with his own gun

Stabbed with his own knife

Beaten in his own fight