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What you see isn’t what it is.

What you imagine isn’t what you imagine.

What you feel as your hometown isn’t the sweet hometown.


What is it, you might ask?

It is a clash between light and dark, sweet drips of fights.

A fight in which heroes fade by daytime

And only arrive by night.

A fight in where dwellers are overcome

By the convincing darkness.

A fight that seems to last as long as it wants.


What you see is the dense fog

Representing the dark.

Its only desire

Is to gain more followers.

The gloomy townsmen listen reluctantly

And become their miserable servants.

The lights are the heroes in saving each one of your kind,

Yet it can only do so temporarily.


The scent of the ash in your hometown

Is how the dark kills.

The squirrels that once used to live in the dead trees

Now have perished.

The rare, fluttering blue jays plopping into little bushes

Then drifted away into a never-ending sleep.


Ravens take the spotlight of the squirrels and blue jays

And croak deeply into the night.

As they sing dreadfully from dawn to dusk,

The followers quietly walk

With a tippity tappity tap.

As they scurry about, they seem to chat in whispers,

But instead, they exchange orders for their master.


How were they overcome by this way?

Well, it isn’t quite a mystery.

The bitterness of the fog,

Consisting of the hatred and foolish desires each human had,

Were enough to promise each one with good fortune.

They breathed in the fog

And never once breathed out.

They work for the dark

Working forever throughout day and midnight

Yet never receiving the pay they desired.


There is nothing else to describe how sinister the dark is,

Except for the puddles in the rain.

Yes, the ones you stepped when you were a child

Every time it rained.

The puddles feel of freezing wantings

Cursed by itself.

The dark and puddles are alike,

As each one is fueled by coldness.

Coldness from the humans

And coldness from the temperatures.


You wonder who I am.

You wonder what I am.

You wonder how I know of all of this.

Isn’t it obvious?

I am the one of the war.

I am the one of fights.

I am the one of calamity and destruction,

Quietly smiling to myself with each mistake.

I am the slithering soul

Of the creator of chaos.

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