Feral wolves gnaw at my heels,
as I walk away from the past.
Blood of the ghosts, dried on my sleeves,
a testimony to what I was, what I became,
what I am and what I am becoming.
I walk away from the beginning,
from the ends that I caused,
from the dark under the flame.
I pray that I can walk away.
But the wolves and the ghosts, and
the strains of blood, they never forget.
As Sisyphus I carry my penance,
paranoid, cynical, fake to the core;
I have debts I cannot pay.
I have debts that I will never pay.