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The Demon walks with shadowy arms that secretly seize the lost changeling who is bred in the psychosis of knowing the "anti-life" wherein he walks.

With Demon whispers the darts and arrows of discontent are filled with voices piteous yet immense
 
"You cannot ever..." "You never will!" "You are never good enough"

He is the monster of forsaken ideation, the one that mindfully will leverage his own exalted throne so you can bow down to him
He muses over his magic to fragment any semblance of contentment or happiness
He throws you in a sewer of wicked, twisted aberrations with no return
He smothers you in a cesspool of begotten history
The Demon shackles you within a vile black bevel of impassable consequences
Within the gears and inner workings of some grotesque derelict clock eternally ticking yet never changing the hour
He puts his foot upon your heart while pushing you to the brink of falling
Into a sinkhole of this grim and dreadful illusion of no resolution

This Dire Demon who's devised the "drug" of choice is the highest bidder
To choose to die before one lives!

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