He wraps himself in spasticsybron as often as the moon changes. His face of tattered masks cover that which is beneath. His pixed words are twisted and tormented, inviting but terrifying. His spirit speaks as one I long for. Yet his eyes turn yellow. Life pulses in his veins, black and red. His deaths and resurrections are feigned. Oh, Lord, that you would bring forth the lion heart, the cloak of courage, the crown of glory. Lord, why do I wait in vain torment of heart and soul for this one? Why do I long so for this soul? Why does it hold onto the darkness so tenaciously?