I tried to write of knights and heroes,
but he, no lover of light, killed them as they were dreamed,
and my stillborn words fell limp from my pen,
never to breathe or bleed or touch.
He dwells in the stagnant waters hidden in my mind,
the places I never stir for fear of what I may rouse.
There he feasts on the aborted flesh of good deeds I never did,
love I never gave, innocence I once had
and plants in their places the worst of me.
He has the eyes of the Erl-King
and the voice of a stranger I met one dark night,
the hands of a thief, the lips of a liar, the arms of a murderer,
the mind of a sinner, and a heart made of frozen guilt.
His soul is entirely my own.