A short poem about delusion.

Wicked runs the dark thoughts which haunt.

Torturous are the ideas which are illuminated.

Shallow falls the edge as laughter dies.

Alone is the dread of the damned and weary.

Hope is an illusion for the comfort of the weak.

Darkness draws closer and closer still.

Moments pass like a wounded angel’s fall.

Unknown is the dread of the lost and confused.

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