Corning, N.Y. U.S.A.
And in truths name, for and about, you see the nature of my darkness.
Those who echo white and white, each to the other, adoring lapdogs all.
Never can they see the beautiful absence of light in my, lovingly, tormented soul.
Peering up from the abyss of my eternal prison,
knowing that to ascend into the accursed glare is, and ever will be, death.
Or worse, to expose to all the blackness of my existence.
Worse. Or relief to confess such weakness?
The horror of my weakness is a bane, and my power.
Both inescapable, and yet a comfort to me.
For is not weakness my glowing black lamp?
Drawing my faithful to me, as moths to burning wick.
A power as equal to anything as "Noble" as truth.
I wield it as you wield the light that is your very being.
This same light that, uncounted ages past,was my bridge,
my path to my own dark and holy Sanctum.
Punishment or reward?
You who gives such power to forgiveness, not asked by me,
and so denied the chance.
If you could even know,
You who thought me harmed.
And in believing this, how could I endure?
Yet I exist.