The Pumping, Oozing Heart Poem by Dylan Dowrick

The pack grows weary of travel,
We've walked for five days and
without love, compassion,
or sight,
my people grow weak.

We are of no breed,
I am of no leader,
They walk slow, I, quicker.
Us?
We are a new race.

Watch for my people,
They've seen many-a you,
and, until now, vice-versa,
NOT.
Potential danger at its finest.

We are not afraid of consequence,
but of moral action,
against ourselves.
Kind,
that we will not torture you with life.

Quick is my dagger, not sharp,
not mortal, but just as dangerous,
as it slices through and through.
Pain?
Don't worry, no blood will be wasted.

I'm sorry for MY people,
we'll witness a great massacre,
you will forget this pain.
Dream,
and bliss will come in sleep.

The effects of our war
have altered my thoughts,
a change-of-heart.
Pain?
Oh, yes, I still hear screams.

My history, is my peoples'.
Not because I lead,
but because I am of unison,
alone
in my race. Slayer of others'.

I keep pace, I have errands.
I am commissioned,
end-er of worlds, I am called.
Mission?
I am almost finished...

Some hate me, some love.
The most disputed concept
I've created, most cannot conceive.
Love,
I pump, pump, pump.

Name? I tell in confusing ways.
Rumpelstiltskin?
His words are nothing in comparison.
Name?
I prefer the title.