Oh my, I'm not feeling funky at all.
Poetry time.
Only the light of a torch lights up this place.
A light that struggles to exist every second.
Draught of air coming through the underground,
to put out the only thing that is bright.
No matter, though. Even the slightest shimmering
is not small to reveal what's hidden deep below.
Dark silhouettes of the unknown lurking, crawling.
That they're up to no good, I can see.
Or it's just that we don't understand?
Are they evil? How can that be judged?
The shadows live in a world of their own.
Its their collision with us that makes them feared.
They're forming a ball of souls, entwined together,
until one is kicked out, punished to a life of strangeness.
I can see it cries in fear, desperation, but no anger.
If fact, it is shy, worried what the world will be.
And men fuck it up even more, they couldn't care less.
It's a monster since it was born, they think.
There is no point in defending it.
Both you and it would be ripped to pieces.
And perhaps the time will heal the pain.
Or it won't. Now we can't see.
Great pain may come, but what the reason is?
I hope to be surprised just like it is.
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