Your silhouette in a field of truth,
I see but a pulsating blackness,
That oozes and slithers out of your obnoxious form.
And takes pleasure from wounding innocence
I can see it ripple in sadistic delight
As if it weren't just my imagination spurting wings
The ebon feeds on their screams and whimpers,
And their pain and hurt bleeds through ,
All into a river of sorrow that flows for an eternity,
And on the banks of which,
The darkness drinks of, then retreat to its;
Primrose path.