Whither there are lights emanating from within,
There exists the personage of a Shadow Man.
His eyes as diaphanous as the enshrouding darkness,
He tries desperately to egress from a burnishing light,
Vanquishing the stars that glisten in the nighttime sky,
The Shadow Man bemoans that he cannot eschew his drudgery
Whether it be dawn or dusk, his skin boils in the blustering heat.
From whence he came the shade is deceiving.

The Shadow Man returns only to descry that there is still light,
Beaming down upon him as blithely as wisps of gossamer,
As heartily as the stench of a cadaver that has been disinterred.
The flesh of his face abscesses until it is more repugnant than the odor of death.
And coming to realize his grotesqueness, the Shadow Man is astute.
He searches resolutely for a nook or a niche in which no light can reach,
But the outcome is bleak and, after the light smolders for quite some time,
It eventually ignites, thus the Shadow Man moves to and fro to quell the burning

But discerns that, as ashes in an urn, they amass together and despite his efforts,
He is unable to disentangle himself from the grasp of the sweltering heat.