The Daemon

(a poem)

A time ago I asked myself a question,

knowing not where it led.

See, I have lived my life a sinning man,

I have learned that sinners can see through others,

and sometimes see themselves staring back.

Looking yourself in the eye,

 anywhere but in front a mirror,

I call that me I see,

Daemon.

One day,

 I asked the me who wasn’t me,

“What are you?”

but it said nothing,

it just was.

Radiating darkness and deafening quiet,

where in the quiet a drone swells,

alive with malice.

The drone getting louder,

 Louder still,

panic crackles through the air like lightning,

as the pain,

a sharp pressure bares down from all directions,

consuming you whole.

There is nothing but the darkness and the quiet—

the darkness,

the quiet,

and the seething.

It was cold anger,

icy hostility,

 burning hatred.

A hatred so wide,

so wide and indiscriminate,

it would see all things suffer,

and it would see all things cease.