The cold, the knife and the Blood

Cut the memories, make them go away, make the pain dissipate;
help me fight the fight to end all life like this.
Cut at me to make me bleed, the blade is so ice cold.
The blood runs hot, red and free of body, warms the knife,
makes the cold disappear, held at bay, until I bleed out, and then cold will be all I feel,
if I were to feel a thing, I think it’d be cold rather than sadness.
I fear not death, but empty life and meaningless existence.
No one is exempt to cold, there is no immunity.
From time to time people will feel their warmth drain,
their life grow cold, and meaningless, and it takes the Blood to warm them,
and hold the cold at a field’s length.
The Blood of true Royalty, the Blood of the Son, the Lamb.
Only then shall they overcome cold and truly feel, for the rest of a long, warm eternity.