Of Sins, Souls and Swords

I know, my love, I have sinned
In a glorious show of slow contempt
With a step too late in good defense
I know I have died, and killed.
And slept by morning light
Stinking of yielded swords too many
Yes I was damned, and so did damn
In return, fallen souls too many.
I know, my love, swords and souls
Are my pride, my one forte
And I do claim so with good graces
Enough to wear my sins in places
Kept, in contrast, otherwise for things
Which are but still of my own makings.

I know, my love, whatever I say
Whatever I do, whatever I show
Will never be enough to take away
All I didn’t tell, secrets I didn’t say
Which is why my swords so hang
Always so ready at a moment’s touch
To be taken in, and used, and put
There where laughs are volatile.
My humour is well-spent, you see
Not on spilt blood, but on unspilt glee
And I yield, and laugh, and fall, and damn
Claim souls with my sword so good
For sin is too fine a word to use
To call my makings with a name, you see.

Correction, please

No, my dear.

I do not fill voids. I create them.

I seep in, suck the marrow out of you, empty you of everything. Wide, gaping abysses are my forte. I negate everything you know, annul all you are. Rescind without reinstating, overturning the tumult in you and scooping you hollow. Quash your atoms, turn them into mass-less dust, and let them swirl off into some unknown dimension. Leaving you with more than an absence, profounder for its dearth. 

I am the scythe personified. I am the poison you think is balm, and all because you fail to see. Your voids are more for my presence, blindfolded mortal. I kill and hack and dissolve, scooping and disbanding. 

What are you, compared to ranks of fallen humanity? If ever I have served a purpose, it is this and this alone.

I am the Void that was created to create more voids.
And you? You are one of my masterpieces.