In darkness my soul resides,
Homing for the path of light,
Admiring from afar,
A shine that might not truly possess.
Through the blood tainted roads of existence,
With only my pressence to tend the wounds,
Wounds triggered by my lonesome self.
On my knees I've seen crimson,
spill from my life giver's arm,
In cries of agony and pain,
Begging for her temple to keep.
Drops of life pounding,
Over the vile soil.
I have seen demons in my image,
I have heard them using my voice,
Until I no longer yearn living,
Until my soul have given up.
All these roads I've walked through,
So short, yet seem so long,
Breathtaking and with spines,
scratching my existence.
Most of these I have forgotten,
So I never slither again,
Into the thorn-filled aisles of my torrid past.
Still, these memories so hunt me,
Feeding on my spirit,
Corroding my thoughs.
Thus the lust for crimson has arisen,
To purge all sanity left in me,
To make me less of what I am,
And more of what I hate.
Yet, I glimpse the light I'm hunting,
Distanced from the stranger I've become.
I stand alone, and wait in vigil
In vigil as it advances,
With my soul in hand she prances.
To deliver it to me,
To turn me into what I used to be,
To satisfy my hunger.
And yet making it grow stronger.
Death in May