As such, the darkness seems to clothe the very light that has given us
as though no other forefront may in the flicker of light weigh us down
the sense of thought as such is imagined,
the stertorous breathing that has in yourself been a lost
as a numbing cold slowly traces the very being that gives us life, feast on our sanity
and murder us from the inside.
the strength of ages, he has. the wisdom of old, he ratiocinates.
how can we who trod in the dark murder this most devious foe?
how can we whose existence have been once born and die as such?
is your thought not merely an interplay of the hidden thoughts of man who aspires for greatness so sudden, shuddering the thunders beset by human frailty?
i am but human, as are you. in death shall we once again feast, for though people of old and now have forgotten you, through your creatures, you once again rise: an immortal.