Weak Matches

It is like wind, unseen but known of its presence.

A touch, a gust, so lethal it chills your spine.

It sweeps forgotten flakes of misery flecked upon you.

A form of power held onto longer than love,

To be questioned of it formidable, but instead immortal?

Lingering inside us like ripples pattering against the flesh we carve.

For it leeches and grows for the very reason inside its place of birth.

Hollowed out as an abyssal anguish capable of continuous destruction.

This very thing created inside the bodies wisping as now ghosts,

Facing and acting from the spoken tongues coddling every desire.

This very thing's name rolls of the tongue,

Its name, is evil. 

Spreading with the ferocity of a wild flame.

Forming from the very creation that struck the match.

It is the darkness to exist for there to be a glimpse of light.

Yet even a fires flame is only licking against surfaces in the mere darkness,

Darkness of those that dwell in fear, filth, and embrace the disturbing. 

Sharpening teeth of those who feed off wild hunger,

Filling those with false pleasure, in exchange for their slices of humanity.

We speak the name of evil, as a remembered friend we turn a face from.

Yet have we refused to look in the eyes of those that are glazed of blind anger?

Or those glazed of the desires within the creation of suffering.

We are the animals who can become just as so, the same as the animals who are.

We are the walking truth of a name so long lived,

The tyrrant that grants us to plead our graciousness.

We are the destruction of every reflection among ourselves.