My soul guards secrets
that leave a darker taste,
A prison full of demons,
self serving and gruesome,
Not fit for human sight,
Though one can glimpse them
from the corner of an eye.

They are ancients in kind,
Memories ingrained in one's mind,
Of actions that still remain so,
And as it is such, Simply the
Mere curse of our condition.

And I cling to the promise
That only the weak are consumed.