I stare into my own eyes in my reflection.
And the Jackal stares back.
His eyes cold, and imposing.
A stare that pierces all flesh and bone.
My timid eyes bow before his.

I walk down streets of worn stone.
He walks with me.
He is with me always.
He cares for nothing.

Into his heart I look, and where I have stored my pain I find.
Where I have hidden my Wrath.

He who would see the world burn.
He who knows pain and anger, most intimately.

Upon days most unexpected, he shows his terrible face.
From none he will hide.
When others look upon his face, my face they see only.

But alas, it is his face they see.
And his eyes they behold.

I am the hound.
I am timid.
I bow before my masters.

I run to do their bidding.
My confidence dryed up.
I hide when afraid.
When afraid I whimper.

He is Passion.
He is Wrath.
He is Death

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