Beyond consolation

I am dripping.
That hope of moving through the ripe fields is gone.
Gone like the hopes of valour, hopes of pride.
There is no other purpose for me now.
I am greatful to the fires that made me strong.
But do not mistake it for fondness.
Yes, I was useful in the end, but then it was the end.
End of an age, end of Innocense.
I had asked for this when I made my move.
An eternity in guilt, an eternity of curse.
Murder is never forgiven, never condoled;
yet I am not to blame.
I am not to blame though I cried for blood.
The blame lies
on the hand that failed to control me,
failed to smother that beast awakened.
Now that the blood has flown,
and the deed is done,
I realize that the fields were only a dream.
A dream of a dream.
Made for the purpose,
trained for the purpose,
used for the purpose.
But who listens to a crying,
drying,
sword?