One, two.

The number tattoo.

Three, four.

He followed no more.

Five, six.

The barrel of the gun clicks.

Seven, eight.

He gave it away to Hate.

Nine, ten.

All his love was spent.

Eleven, twelve.

Towards the end we fell.

The fire in his eyes

may not hide.

But always his

eyes will remain dry.

Fighting we go,

on and on.

Not knowing,

soon enough,

that we will be gone.