Maybe I'm mistaken.
It seems when I look ahead,
There's a figure.
He's hunched over a pitted six string,
Plucking, playing and making it ring.
I recognize the songs,
But I don't know where from.
All I know is that the shadows gleefully frolick as he plays.
They multiply and scatter.
As the guitar sings faster and seems to scream,
They keep in time.
And just when I get close enough to see,
The figure turns and grins,
It's me.
Then I realize I practice the same songs,
Over and over every night.
Me, who whispers of darkness to the world,
Who urges the shadows to breed and be bold.
But of course,
I don't believe in fate.
But I do believe in wishful thinking.
Because I know myself.
I'd much rather infect the darkness,
And twist it to my own use.
I'll be ****** if I become its victim instead.