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Brooding

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I can feel it spreading.
From a single point.
It spreads its dark magic throughout my being.
I try so hard.
A feeble attempt to resist its treachery.
And I fail yet again.
A failure that hardly comes as a surprise.
So the darkness spreads.
It begins at a single point.
Its origin so vile.
So evil.
Pitch black.
Inky and even more frigid than your heart.
Your heart.
The sad, shriveled, frostbitten organ that lies in your chest.
Beating.
Slowly beating.
A steady drummer takes refuge deep beneath your chest.
Cold, dark, and wicked, he plots.
To spread the darkness.
And spread the evil.
When all that I love seems to flash before my eyes,
As I ready to give up the fight and bid it all farewell,
Your heart-rate quickens.
To a still somber beat,
but one of hope.
One of purpose.
It seems grateful.
Like your very soul feeds on my demise.
And it does.
It always has.



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