The temptation of sleep wraps its chains hard around you
and drags you deep into its own world, construed.
Reverences of monsters yield forms much too true,
suspending your blood while your mind forces through.
They taunt and they torture while screaming aloud,
stripping your shell, whilst the small crowd,
those lurid black bodies, cheer you on proud,
and you soon learn to love the pain’s pleasuring shroud.
Frail skin awakens, sweating yet cold,
shrieking the whispers your mind has been told.
Your hair strains and tingles, your spine shivers bold,
clenching your bed sheets, reality grows old.
Prosaism believes in the fusion of cons,
as your thoughts wander off to think of the bond,
this creature of violence and its darkness, so fond,
of the fear it rules over as to blacken its dawn.
Even in daylight your caution builds walls,
watching for demons and listening for calls.
Your senses stretch deep into unconscious halls
and imbues your weak mind as it silently falls.
The powers of misery grip tight on your heart,
a blood-haze seeps in and cracks each worn part.
Hope glimmers unnoticed, your soul has submerged.
Where once you have felt, your thoughts are now purged…