When my mind cannot see in the darkened world, 
there are wheels turning behind my own eyes that do see.
Shadowy, wayward entities drift through night’s darkest hour. 
They don’t request; they demand to be.
Those dark figures subliminally pass, 
pass through my blazing dreams, 
fashioned by wanting or so it would seem.
They’re passing through without reasoning or knowing why, 
figments of inspiration and desire,
lending to the horrors they surely inspire.
Can anyone else hear that tortured cry?
To cover true light and sincere reality,
to mask true inspiration behind banality,
this is a part of the shape-shifter’s tally.
Souls do dwindle in such still air,
giving no warning, not saying, “beware.”
He offers seconds of pleasure for those who bend,
not speaking of darkness, the reward an eternal end.
He gathers youthful hearts, his trophies.
Their dreams are crippled because he’s their friend.
He shapes their desires; it’s their will he does bend. 
Growing more weary by a senseless display,         
these souls begin yearning for goodness and light.
They start searching for something to turn the past 
from vaguely wrong to absolutely right. 
Still the shape-shifter hovers close by,
waiting and watching to take his tally and fly.