Painfully slumped there's no position
When fevered winds blow inside soul
Such is… as is, a steward perhaps?
Guides this flicker of lamplight's glow
For every line crafted from depths within
Perception is power of singular mind
Mood conveys need to devise or conceive
Something haunting that screams in kind
The critique of a master, so duly awarded
Opinion artistic, or aesthetically pleasing?
Weight of worlds, a battle losing fast
How dare he inspire shadows he's teasing?
Angles are cut paths without any direction
Methods are useless, no right brain agrees
Magnitude of influence will sharply unravel
Deprived and starved this demon still sees
He watches in vigil, as this mind exudes
The pitch of figure black with cold stare
Donned in white, I command its moves
Imagination exaggerates this nightmare
Wise observations, succumb to my bend
A feeling of grandeur will assault with jest
His effect, his approval…. ‘The Poe' hovers
Catching my demons we lay them to rest
