The shadows of night,
Are disinterested, disinclined,
Unflattering and unscrupulous;
Take whatever shape you like.
Your stories will be safe,
In plain sight, as the silhouettes
Become the lone sentinels to
Give any meaning to this landscape.
Your stories will find company,
Amongst the chronic diseases
Of the land's bosom, the nooks
And crannies that nurse infections.
Your stories will grow anemic,
Lost in a portrait without light;
And in losing identity amongst the unseen,
Will look to allies within the ancient sores.
Your stories will find new life,
Amongst an underworld of thugs,
And thieves and murderers and rapists,
That cater to the world that is lit.
Your stories will evolve and devolve,
Their bones contorted with fractures,
Their skins glistening with boils and pus,
Their souls sold to the highest bidder.
Your stories will be prostituted,
No longer aware of their make,
The characters and events and climaxes,
All refurbished with rough, selfish hands.
Your stories will grow and prosper,
And encroach ever so slowly,
Across the lands of the paladins they serve,
To recruit new secrets, new lies, new affairs.
Your stories will pine for death,
Finding it, finally, in Sun's lazy wake,
As the guesses and the terrors vaporize
Taking with them the protection of anonymity.