The room is silent,
a melancholy aura emanates
from the figure of a man.
His attention is taken by a woman
stalking into the room.

Before he has a chance to ponder her intent,
she passes judgment of his actions,
calling him lazy,
good for nothing,
worthless.

He swallows his words,
knowing only pain will result.
The darkness writhes within,
churning, flooding, flowing,
tearing at his insides.

Focusing on memories of light
attempting to battle the essence of night,
remembering moments from the past,
but his strength is fading fast.
He shall not fail.

Digging deep, he searches
frantically for something,
an anchor, a door to close—
anything to keep the black mass
from breaching reality.



Stomach boiling, chest heaving
he struggles to resist it.
It burns his soul
searing it with scars,
scars that shall never fade.

The woman’s screaming pierces his concentration
pulling him from his memoirs,
destroying his last defense
against the darkness.
It has begun.

The darkness rises, burning as it moves
pure anguish driving, fueling its locomotion.
It tears at his being, pulling at heart.
It strums a morbid tune
signaling the end will come soon.

The nocturnal fright climbs
choking, stifling the brightness of life;
as the light fades, his vision goes red,
but the woman laid her bed.
There is no escape.

The darkness has taken hold.
With no way out, the man fades,
turning to the only thing he knows to be real,
anger—
embracing his tormentor.

He breathes fire, burning her down,
his words poisoning her with their venom,
their tentacles snaring her
trapping her where she stands.
But he is not there.

He does not care.
His ears deaf to her pleads.
He feels no more fear.
He is entranced by the power,
power he has never had.


When he returns, the woman’s absence signals his leave
retreating to his room of solace.
But its whitewashed walls hold no comfort.
Even in his privacy, he cannot find it,
a feeling of release.

The chains of power have bound him
firm and hot they scorch his flesh.
He wishes to be freed
but doom has planted its seed.
He knows not what he has done.

His throat is dry
scorched by the fire
of the torture he has inflicted
His skin is pale and aches
from the poison that seeps from his pores.


He catches his reflection in the mirror,
He feels himself inferior.
Disgusted by his image,
thoughtless in his rage,
he lashes out.

His fingers fold, forming a fist,
he shatters the mirror in a single blow
blood spills from his knuckles embedded with glass
but feeling no pain he continues,
he cannot stop.

He feels no better.
His hands long for blood not their own
the density of bone grasped in them
ready to be snapped, dismantled,
just as he.


He sinks to his knees, head in his hands,
and his head pounds with the voice of his conscience
as it runs frantic laps around the fringes of his mind,
just out of reach,
unable to be silenced.

The time for tears and pain has passed.
He is emotionless,
hard as stone,
static like the air in the room,
only time will tell what he does next.

“Son of God,
Puppet of Satan,
what possesses you to commit such atrocious acts?” jeers his conscience.
“The Darkness.” he says
as the shadows fade from his eyes.