Drowning down with the shallow ones,
They have this... darkness... surrounding them;
It gnaws away at their own mind.
No, it drowns their psyche,
Pulling it beneath the silver lined waves;
Coating it in inken armor...
In a vain effort to protect themselves.
These creatures have no reflection;
Resemblant of demons and their ilk,
Unable to look within and battle their own demons,
The dark ink pools to form a mirror...
The demonic creature can never look into it,
They're too afraid of their own shadow;
And that is what they've become...
A shade; A simple hue...
A shadow that follows others around, seeking the light that is within them...
Because they look at them, and just think,
'Anything is better than the darkness... The cold, cruel eternal night...'
Their jealousy is eating them alive.
It plagues their souls, shadowing, as shadows do,
Always following those they crave...
As an ink shadow, like a leech;
A vampire draining the life out of them,
Drawing out the darkness, prolonging the agony...
Slowly, slinking around like a predator of the night,
They draw new people in;
More tortured victims to abuse,
As they purr...
And whisper comforting things...
The sullen desire to be just like them, as they follow,
Trapping them within their ill-prepared snare,
Draining their victim is a painful process; A true tragedy!
They corner them, until they cannot back away,
Can't even breathe...
The victims, each of them feel powerless...
But what they fail to realize
Is that the demons feel too; They feel just as powerless.
They've lost control, fallen prey to their own whims...
Their animalistic desire to dominate;
To be better than that which they feel is beneath them.
Twisted creatures, haunted by their own names,
And just so tired of being below everyone else;
Pressed beneath their boots and ground into the frigid concrete...
It's too late, and their trust has been regained...
They lick the blood from their claws,
Savoring the metallic taste, scouring it clean,
And they turn on the ones who trust them.
They think the world is against them,
When they are just as much against the world.
Or rather... unjust.
What you see in the inken mirror is a reflection;
Phantom limbs haunting funhouse hallways,
The demons see in the dark, with their blind eyes,
And they can smell the fear on you...
Their fight is not with us, but rather,
It is with the mirror;
The one covered in the poisoned coals of their own martyred hearts.
It's a stark contrast;
The shiny pure white, and the wicked. cold. dark.
Now others know what kind of demon they are,
You can see it in their eyes, piercing as the grail...
Silence settles, dwelling within your soul,
Their fake smiles and friendly persona is just a ruse, nothing more.
When people look into those cat-like, vertical slits,
Like small slivers of moonlight,
They can see the evil and wickedness that lies there.
Always with the lies...
Nevermind the intended recipient...
Some of us can see through it,
Though they can't see it themselves,
If ever they did look into that midnight mirror,
The one that lies alone within their deepest place,
They would have no reflection at all;
A ghost, wandering among the twilight,
Scattered and lost within the ink black stars,
Which line the bright, white night sky...
The stark contrast;