The Perfect Place

The corrupted light that pours out of the imitating, hypocritical clouds

Cannot cast its’ glow onto

These dark walls of rock.

I can hardly look into the magnificence of this darkness

Before turning away, my eyes of light unworthy.

I cannot see inside, because my eyes are rotten

By the light outside, and they constantly tell me to turn away.

My hands flail around me as I feel my way inside,

Until I trip and fall, as I spin around in the dark realm.

On and on, I fall, into the endless abyss,

I close my eyes, though the hue of black never falters,

And await the end as I know it will ultimately come.

But the bottom never comes.

I cannot even tell if my eyes are open or not.

Then I feel my feet touch ground,

As softly as if I have wings that I cannot see.

The ground did not feel like rock, but it was soft

And as comfortable as a freshly made bed.

This place, wherever it is, gives me an odd sensation.

I feel peaceful, right at home,

No worries, no pain, no troubles, no sorrow.

Is this a dream? A nightmare?

A haven? A prison?

Then again, why worry?

Am I needed?

Does someone care for me in the light world of the damned?

It does not matter. I am here,

And I have no intention of leaving.

I am inside a world of darkness, and it’s

The perfect place.