My soul at all times lurks dangerously close to
The abyss flooded, seeping with darkness, through
Which no mortal can see light, but the abyss creates
Its own deceptive glow. Darkness, delicious, flings wide its gates
And gropes for my soul. Blood, edged in strange glows,
Appears deceptive, yet inviting as so smoothly it flows.
Evil prowling about seems not wrong, but cold
As it brushes past, freezing but bold.
Like moonless night holds protection in dark,
Or the black, darkest dream is sweet, in part,
So feels this evil, this nightmare, abyss. But somewhere deep inside says something is amiss;
I feel it within the presence of blackness felt so long,
But is this really all so wrong?
Why is my very being drawn with passion toward
What I know all mortals should strongly abhor?
Black is lighter than all things white,
But it takes also on a more dizzying height
From whence I could fall and plunge toward ground
Without even uttering the slightest sound.