Thoughts of a Loner.

L'Enfant de la Nuit. (By Sapphirus)

He was a treasure of darkness,
The Mistress of October gracing her blessing,
The Mistress standing firm behind the young lad,
A shadow born from endless torment,
Prolonged years of abandonment and abuse,
His mother strayed in the mist of drugs,
Forshook him cruelly,
While his father was an alcoholic beast,
Wielding thundering fists and fury as that of Mars,
Irish whiskey rotting on shelf fuel his rage,
As he marked scars on the child's tender skin,
And soul forever bleeding,
He learnt to hide and silence his cries,
As hatred seeped from his crimson gaze to all of humanity,
Empathy drained from his soul and replaced,
Replaced by an endless void,
A chasm where once humanity strived,
Now filled with shadows and cries of his bleeding soul.

He was a treasure of darkness,
In the scheming depths of his mind,
A personality was born,
Personality capable of shielding his scars,
Yet a dripping toxin slowly killing himself,
He named his new friend "Schizophrenia",
Voices whispering chaos as the demons distorted his life,
Life slipping away from his small hands,
As his impulses surged ravaging his soul,
A storm of uncontrollable urges,
The young lad was but a sacrificial lamb,
With the scythe of his fractured psyche,
Gruesome thoughts painted his thoughts in crimson,
Each stab,
A release as he went,
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
A symphony of twisted satisfaction,
Blood splattered like macabre art,
A haunting canvas of dread and despair,
A testament to his torment,
His father's screams only a melody of terror to his ears,
Echoing his own childhood.

He was a treasure of darkness,
As he watched the life drain from his father's eyes,
A mirror of his innocence lost,
Shattered by cruelty of his own hazed vision,
Violence became his only means of expression and communication,
His hands stained crimson with the remnants,
Remnants of his shattered childhood,
His father's lifeless form a mirror to the suffering he endured,
Flesh torn from tendon to tendon,
Blood pooling as the River of Styx,
In each act of murder he sought a miracle,
In each act of murder willing to silence the voices,
To find solace in the chaos,
A fleeting sense of control in his dysfunctional mind.

He was a treasure of darkness,
As the darkness never abated and only grew it's own limbs,
A twisted beast within as insatiable and relentless as ever,
His mind a labyrinth of horrors,
Twisted and grotesque as it wailed,
The echoes of his father's wrath and the absence of his undeserving mother,
He killed not for pleasure but to quell the tempest resting within,
A futile and unsatisfactory attempt to drown the whispers,
Whispers that haunted him,
In his father's pool of crimson blood,
He saw his own reflection and what he had become,
An endless cycle of pain and violence,
Perpetuated by his very own hands.

He was a treasure of darkness,
The architect of his own ruins,
As he stood alone by the end,
Surrounded by the echoes of his tragic past and agonising memories,
Bloodied hands trembling with the weight of his sins,
His father's vacant eyes now a lingering reminder,
No redemption shall be attained,
No salvation shall be offered,
Only the endless night of his tormented pain,
As his psyche became the very raging battlefield,
Ravaged by trauma,
As he became a psychopath,
A psychopath born from the very ashes of his burnt innocence.

~ Sapphirus