He sits in a blanketed haze
forever disturbed by his thoughts.
Life to him seems all too dark.
In a web of horror he's caught.
Blood is nothing more than a liquid
that drips from the souls of the weak.
He slaughters humans for the fun of it.
His heart could never be more bleak.
This demon worships the dark.
He finds peace in his sin.
He retreats at the slightest of light
and rejoins the murky blackness within.
He knows that his heart is lost.
It's somewhere, unable to be found.
He doesn't even fret over it's disappearance.
His motto: it's insignificant if it utters no sound.
Poor little demon of the pits of hell.
He casts aside all love and hope.
To think an open heart could've saved him,
before he slid down this despairing slope.
He might have been providential at heart.
One who could exist with the light of innocence.
But hate attended the funeral of his fate.
And his core has unfortunately been tainted.
He plays with the corpse of his victims.
It's the only contact he gets without complaint.
They're too far gone to disagree or object.
Even they're deceased, ghostly whispers are faint.
This demon makes do with with loneliness.
Even the hard, cold nights beneath the sky
He knows even if he wishes for a friend.
His wickedness would make certain they die.
His wings are constantly bloody.
He enjoys the moistness of the red source.
He wickedly chuckles at every kill.
His heart derived of remorse.
When you look at his story a little closer.
You'll see that he's really trapped at soul.
But maybe a fiend such as he.
Should never get what he needs to vanquish the cold.
