These demons inside of me
don't leave me alone,
or give me a break,
the only break they want
is the break of my soul.

They're always at my neck,
behind my back, waiting,
for a moment when I slip
and let them in to win.
I see 'em when I wake,
walk, but when I'm dreaming
is when they the most active.
The one I met last was a doozy,
a lady known as the Sorrow.

Now sadness comes in many forms,
loud and moaning, or low
and groaning, and all facets
in between. The Sorrow I met
had a low, choking sob
that came from the throat.

That was what I first sensed,
before I spotted any visual.
As I explored the dream-domain,
I found nothing of note,
in that blue-tinted room
of white squared tiles.

It was a clean space, yes,
but it was more sterile than
anything and with nothing to show,
it felt like emptiness given form.

So it didn't take me long
to track that weeping sound,
and find the only other figure
present within the mess of tiles,
a humanesque form lying on
the cold, featureless ground.

She was crying to herself,
so I couldn't see her features,
and her hair covered her too,
like some kind of shroud from
the world and its sadness.

What I could spot was a skin
that was tinted blue, lightly
so and partially faded too.
Her clothes were long and modest,
Everything about her seemed
to project an image of a cocoon,
a cover to hide under from the
ways of our world, weighing her down.

I felt an awful pity for the woman,
never was I one to take joy in
others pain or misery. This girl
was a stranger, but stranger, I
felt an empathy towards her.

Even though I stood right above,
and had been watching for a bit,
she didn't seem to know I was there.
I called to her, without a name to call,
and still, she ignored me, still weeping.
Uneasy I did feel, wondering what
I should do or if I should just go.
Who was I to bother her in this state?

I didn't even know how I'd help,
it's not like I was an expert on grief,
but still, I wanted to give her relief.
So I lightly poked down at her shoulder,
hoping to at last her attention.

After a few moments, she moved,
at least acknowledging my action.
She seemed surprised and stunned,
and so it took her a minute to respond.
Slowly she switched her head up to me.
She slipped her hands from her face,
and moved her hair out as well,
finally removing that natural veil.

For a moment, I was the one stunned.
Seeing her face clear, now, I was
shocked. Her face was actually my face,
my features her features. Except she
wore an expression of unenviable sadness.
A misery that belied the weight of
her sorrow. It was a sorrow at once
I could feel.

For it was my sorrow as well. All
of life's weights crushed onto me
at that moment, all of the pain,
all of the misfortune that I had
to deal with and get over came back
all at once with great fury and force.

Every time I ever cried out,
or felt like all I could do was
be miserable and alone, or
that all my life's goals would
amount to nothing and I'd die,
not a blip on anyone's radar.

That was what fueled the Sorrow,
what gave her life and form,
what motivated her mission
of making me feel as empty
as she felt, as forlorn as she was.

Like true sorrow, it stopped me.
I could no longer move, these rocks
keeping me grounded much like her.
Soon, I was crying just like her.

Two mirror images of misery,
connected and reflected side-by-side.

When I finally awoke from the vision,
tears had stained my pillow moist.