The Dark Side

The Dark Side                                                             May 12, 2007

Walking down that shaded street,
There were shadows every which way he turned.
When he stopped, he couldn't see
Other than a vision more blinding than the sun's former light.
Darkness abounded, had him in its clutch.
He was its prisoner, and it was so cruel,
Whittling him into a bloody shell of himself.
Darkness abounded, and it could've killed him dead,
But the cruelty lied in holding him in his grasp.

The Dark Side has a way with art.
It uses its scalpels to cut out his heart.
With that in mind, the poor one screamed in pain,
But never out loud, for other ears were deafened.
Was it the pain?  No.  It was the noise
Which made it all the more unbearable.
No one could know nor really care.
His nerves would scream,
But his vocals would not.

In a darkened plain infinite in its reach,
The maimed soul reached out for some one's hand.
Occasionally, silhouettes appeared around,
And when he grabbed, they evaporated into Eternity.
Teases they were, for the Dark Side had planned,
He couldn't be saved by the spoken word.
The Dark Side knew he had him in a hellish predicament.
It was the deafening silence which drove him insane.

And the Dark Side continued whittling away,
Perfecting his art, whistling with glee,
Sadistic in all his omnipotent air.
He could not be stopped.
He could not be contained.
His laugh was to a second what a revolution is to a year.
And the poor soul?  Well, he was just a casualty,
A prisoner of his mind, a juxtaposition of Fate.
With each minute he lives, he'll feel more pain,
And the louder he screams, the less they'll hear.