Prognosis

From inside

It grows like a thing of dread

Reaching tentacle-like

Waking Cthulu from his bed

Rising through my mirky soul

Stirring up sediments I had long laid to rest

Or so I thought

Clouding the clarity of the moment's peace

My inner darkness now released

And flooding freely veins of creativity

And flooding icy the fires of my certainty

And while the world is a play

And while the players are all blind

I walk the tightrope above my self

The tightrope on fire by what I do not hide

Because I have told myself I shall not

Turn right until I have walked seven steps

And I cannot turn left except through right

No matter how the children have wept

So once broken from this shadow mold

I thought to be free from these constraints

Not knowing I had merely swallowed my own chains

The rattle of each step, iron deep singing

I know the song of death rising inside

On wings of night like a thing of dread

Wings I shall call nights of bliss

On wings of night like a thing of love

Wings I shall call string-like strength

And make the morning break

Orange sun and yellow sky

Break

And break apart

From inside