The silence is deafening
Death is beckoning
Here I lay cold and hurt
My cover blown; no longer covert
The assassin stands with blade in hand
His concern for my life is dull and bland
Now I wait for the blade to come down
My head, the target, was never found
I look up to see a smile on his face
No, hate, no lust, no fear to be traced
He looked at me and offered his dagger
And helped me up while I hobble and stagger
Why he spared me my life I shall never know
Weather it be pointless, or kindness, or all just for show
I owe him my life, a debt I shall pay
And I still thank him nearly everyday
Behind his mask and cloak of shadow
His art of death, perfected long ago
Now I am an apprenticed blade
My sword now knows a new red shade
I am an assassin.