The curse,
of this putrid flesh,
this casing
of rotting meat,
the hell of living like this,
the anger that it is not over,
the despair as others are not like this.
That gnawing,
in the pit of despair,
those creatures,
deep within the mind,
as they feed on the thoughts of hope.
They consume every desire,
every last idea that you are not like this,
they begin to rule you,
they begin to be right.
Their eyes burn through the night,
their every being bent on destruction
of the soul.
But could they be right,
could their words bear meaning,
could all else be illusion.
Soon will it become clear,
as the dark draws nearer
and nearer.
