That man, who lingers somberly in the dark
He follows shadows as they trace across the walls
Each one an ephemeral form of unparalleled beauty
Intricate detail and patterns like a painting
The dark shadows are his, and he keeps them in his backwater mind
And he plays them back on a reel for the world

His thoughts and actions are truly not of this world
Shallow comfort, for him, comes only from the dark
Unnatural pictures and scenarios trap themselves in his abysmal mind
He sits by himself high upon the frigid courtyard wall
His morbid thoughts are displayed to all as paintings
Scratches and obscure markings are his own distorted beauty

Decrepit vines creep up with grim beauty
Encasing the wall, and his world
He sits on his throne as the motionless Monarch-of-Filth … .a still-life painting
His ambiguous face shadowed in deep black darkness
Few people have approached his wall
They let him keep his mystery, they don't mind

Not even he could excavate the recesses of his cavernous mind
Others' horror was his beauty
A different perspective, hidden by a vine-covered wall
He only dreams of becoming part of our real world
But every dream like this swiftly falls back to darkness
He could only exercise his wish in a single painting

Color, texture, vivacity, and depth give life to the painting
It is a new dimension of his violent mind
The colors are vibrantly bright … no dark
There is no disputing its radiant beauty
He wants to finally open up to the world
So he cuts down the vines and hung the picture on his wall

The passersby stand astounded at the wall
Streaks of blue, orbs of silver, chunks of red, his masterly painting
These innocent onlookers now drawn into his world
The nightmare box, his mind
Drones swept up, hypnotized by beauty
In a trance, they entered his haven of darkness

The wills of these people were smothered by his mind
He adds them to his collection of paintings
And retreats from whence he came, back into the dark