Turn Down

The soul, it stretches thin as the body count rises. What is left of you when vengeance is sated? And yet, the corpses pave the road you walk, ever-growing this flesh mosaic cobblestone. Is this the correct path to walk, sacrificing your own essence for others who will never know of the sacrifices made? Eroding, decaying inside. Happiness, the forlorn lover, stripped from all facets of life. What becomes of the husk? Does it wither away or become akin to the hollow casing around legumes whence the fruit of the plant has been extracted?