Me

Deep inside of me something is lurking.

Sitting in the perfect ambush.

Anything that enters is lost.

Any attempt, a lost cause.

Any try, a failed outcome.

Any plan, a doomed one.

Any course of play, useless.

It's the cost of life.

Inside of me it's stalking.

Setting up for the kill.

Using me.

Abusing me.

Choosing,  me.

To do its dirty work.

It's time.

I'm it.

No longer doing favours.

My art is pure.

Taking no direction.

Asking no guidance.

Telling no tales.

Forgiving no one.

And regretting nothing.

Black walls painted red.

And purple floors fading grey.

Feeling real, putting the pieces.

Heavens open, connections fulfilled.

The sky lighting up in a storm of red and blue.

Lightning and thunder, struggling.

Fighting to stay.

Fighting to be.

Futile.

Intercepting mud.

Last power, shortage.

Lights out.

Stillness.

Me.

Cold.

Grey.

Taste of iron.

Greatness gone.

Pain, the loss.

Now again, deep inside.

It's lurking.

Author's Note

Maybe it should be cut after the sentence 'Black walls painted red.' What do you think?