Dark Paramour

It is an easy thing for me to love darkness,
Being partial darkness myself,
I see the kindred and long to touch it,
Even though hidden so deeply away.

I long to love it in its fullness,
To see it free of posture and manners,
I revel in its predatory presence,
The beastial, licentious hunger loosed to hunt.

Such feral beauty in baser self,
How intricate the workings of the mind we call psychotic,
Strategies ever multiplying and morphing,
One death knell ahead of the next.

A cauldron of appetites forbidden,
Madness perched on the brink of starvation,
To taste, to feast, to revel in the gluttony,
Of delicacies denied over long.

And how I love this darkness,
How easy to hold it tenderly,
Sing songs of its beauty and kiss it hungrily,
Long to consume its every morsel.

As I love it, it flourishes and grows,
It heals, though was never broken,
Becoming something restored and greater,
Something whole and vital.

It is then I taste the folly of my own becoming,
What maker makes the paramour of depraved things,
Gifted to mend debased appetites of ruinous men,
Yet leaves not a soul to love the depravity in me.