Blood splashed over Mallory’s face,

In the middle of the night

The moon acted as a pale spotlight,

For his ghastly actions


The sky and lands were calm,

with a soft wind blowing through the fields of grass

But his veins ran true with passion,

With a hatred he nursed―from deep down

His blood boiled, and his eyes screamed

Waking coldly each night into real-life, poisoned dreams


And then there was this other man, Gethen: a figure to despise

He severed his own children from his home and their lives,

And beheaded all his harem; his so-called “wives”


Such was the scum that infected the plains,

Such was the villainy that had to be slain

Or so Mallory would later claim


But the enacting of justice, by him swinging his scythe

He cut down this small darkness, he put everything right

Through ending Gethen’s petty reign, he began his very own

The villagers all knew it, and the deed chilled their bones


It’s a grim, old practice, that of taking a life

So too is the hope, that might makes it right

For virtue is trampled, underneath the decay

Of what he once was, of the two he killed that day:

Gethen the Plague, and Mallory the Wise

Both men had suffered, and both men had died

Only a shell of the latter remained,

Because blood taken for blood,

Is only the Wicked’s gain


While it’s all terribly trite, it’s also quite true:

Monsters aren’t fictional, they’re me and they’re you

And evil once cut down is evil twice increased:

There’s the deed that is done, and the resentment that breeds


Consider this old preacher’s sermon, consider the tale

It’s a bleak, straightforward lesson―the memory is frail

So I’ll put all this simply, while you’re still at my pew:

One reaps what they sow, and they are what they do


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