(no subject)

[kryptonitemonkey]

He wanders through the halls of death,
searching for the one who came before,
for the keys of release, but he cannot
find the seeds of his escape from the inevitable.
Amidst the hollow void of death of life
he seeks the light he so rarely glimpses,
but is often lost amongst the living dead:
they who live in his world and think silly thoughts;
they who believe themselves truly alive.
Corpses all, they live in filthy death,
boasting of their accomplishments many,
few of any worth recognized in true worth.
He thinks as he walks through the halls,
looking at the endless shades and feels the cold
so deep within he fears he shall never be free.
The light he seeks, he sees but few,
the sparks within, yet they shine so brightly.
He longs for more, as he gazes through the doors,
into the haze of never ending beyond so close.
The gates block his way but for a while,
then shall he pass through and be gone,
but until the day, he fears the long way
that he shall ever have to tread a little more.
The halls, they speak, of secrets, lies, and not,
but all is shadows before the light of truth;
it burns away, and strips the shades so hidden,
from the light the shadows flee, yet remain
for a little while longer in the dark still there.
He despairs of many things in the halls of death,
yet more the darkness clinging to his skin.
It eats away his resolve and soul feeling so alone,
with only bursts of light to guide him
through the halls unbending, hoping for another.