Liquid Pain

In a vain to feel fine,
he gave so much
and yet got so little;
why does the spirits run amok at
the mention of his name?
Or has the old clay pot that sheltered his ego
been broken into a thousand pieces by
the very ones whom made his bed by the sands of time?
Then the wind whispered --
"Pain heals, my child",
but like liquid metal,
the blacksmith had already forged a beast
from the fires of liquid pain;
now all that is left is
someone else, something else but himself.