He wears a mask of gold
He wears the clothes of a king
Yet no one knows his name
For he uses that of someone he saw on the grave
Light and glory is his cloak
But darkness and evil encompasses his soul
Every night, he sleeps petrified
Afraid of what may come to take away his forsaken life
Not a moment too soon, hellhounds dragged him from sleep
He screams, he pleads, he yields
His mask falls off, his glory dissipates, his scars revealed themselves
Souvenirs of his villainous actions
His soul flickers with the last of his life as he sees what might have been his life
If only his soul was as pure as of his mask and clothes
But all was too late, the hellhounds clawed his heart out, he bleeds
Nothing kills a man faster than his own deeds
No one can say all was well
As the limp, tortured man was dragged down to hell