I can see the darkness, as well as in the dark.
It is not the same thing.
I can’t be seen, but I am known by many names.
You can’t hide your true self, no matter how thick the overcoat.
I wonder if I’m cursed with a gift, or gifted with a curse?
It doesn’t matter, really. The visions are all the same, the sickness is all real, and there is no filter.
Your deepest secret is a meteor plummeting you to unseen but certain destruction.
There is nothing I can do, and nothing I would, given the chance, for I grow stronger, the darker your path.
Your evil feeds me; your blood is my nectar, your life, my sustenance.
I bathe in your fever’s sweat.
And I follow you, unseen, in the darkness of your home; I stalk you in the void of the never-ending chasm of your fragile, smoking soul as it drifts toward my immolating fingertips.
I am closer than your shadow, deeper than the marrow of your bones, but I make it so the only pain you feel is your own.
Feathers of needles will prick and pluck the strings of your nerves and muscles.
My leering, dark-winged soldiers will have their way with you in your own bed, and just for a little while, the nightmare shall be real before you wake, trembling and crying as I kiss your quivering lips.
Your screams are a melody, your wailing, a harmony; the inkwell of misery I use to write on your heart never runs dry.
I will grind out my pleasure on you in the waning moonlight, only to reap the husk of you at dawn.
Let me hold you through the night, for all eternity.
