Lost in the Closet

For some, Darkness waits
by well-lit gates.
With sun-filled dreams soon forgot.

A guest comes rapping hard on doors,
entering endless,
spreading its cloak
where no stars can be seen.

We carry the markings belonging to the dark.

The sigil is drawn without our word,
drawn with souls stretched on points,
in skin deep down where we begin.

We carry the markings belonging to the dark.

We walk where the lights go out,
where no one watches,
where the dark begins to glow.

We carry the markings belonging to the dark.

Our tribe waits in the undergrowth.
Silent. Patient.

Watching the blessed few of light,
waiting...
for candles made of snakes 
to go dark again.