what is it like in here
where weather fogs,
and clouds and drears
and echoes sound,
like whispers shut
and hollow thoughts,
and hopes, so grow
it is kind of like a story, show
of fancy lights in woods so dark
and branches creak
and fire sparks
enchanted is my mind sometimes
like golden rods with silver line
like leather books with wooden spines
and mossy paths pulled from time,
though sometimes it is not so whimsical,
when demons lurking wish to grow
and hearken madness just to show
and whisper nothings in my ear
and darkness is never so this deep
as when I lay alone to sleep
and nothing keeps me from myself
they laugh at candles on the shelf
and screams that rupture souls about
are the thing I'd live without
tortured beings though leak through
the blackness crafted to cease my shouts
and tremblings ever course throughout
myself so broken, I'd gladly rout
but then which stories
could you read about?