Darkness swells across the misty moors.
Silent shapes, heaving-weaving.
The silver moon slowly grows black,
as all warmth disappears from the dead maniac sun.


Quiet moans echo with fever.
Indistinct voices swell and tell,
of stories no one hears or listens.
The memory of hope long ago distant.


In this sight devoid of light,
there is but one option:
submit yourself, or be reduced to madness.
There is room only for joyous malice!


What is this place?
You do not know?
Nor him, or all mankind?
Why- it's my mind.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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