The Operative's Existance.

The job we do requires volition,
So this, it seems, is stark admission,
That in the struggle, in the strife,
We lose the things that give us life,
Our compassion, and our greif,
Are usless weapons we must sheath,
So we may march, emotions null,
To do our duty to the full.

To meet, perchance, to fight,
- One sole moment, all one's might,
To take a blade within my grasp,
- I'd do as well with Knife or Asp,
A sport so dark in its endeavour,
Requires, surely, something clever,
Something cunning in its dealings,
Creating darker, hollow feelings,
So when, at last, the crimson flows,
The victor no emotion shows.

This is the very art of darkness,
A skillfull act, for all its starkness,
Taking life without remorse,
With such a simple show of force.

This is the path that we have chosen,
Now nothing's warm, yet nothing's frozen,
And when we're done, we get to mend,
Before the rythym starts again.

But next time luck may not us choose,
Still, one will win and one will lose.