He has this insane power
That keeps me constantly in the dark.
I cannot see, only feel, the scars.
As he gathers his senses under his demonic umbrella,
I begin to feel the sharp
Pains that will haunt me till the end.

I am not sure exactly what must end
Because I can't fully understand his controlling power.
It's like an intense pain, sharp
And dark,
A constant umbrella,
That refuses to protect me from the shower of his scars.

These aren't the kind of scars
That will be easy to mend in the end,
Being forever open to the elements under the translucent umbrella
Of his power,
But they are dark
Like physical cuts, left by an object so sharp...

Shining and sharp
Leaving enormous inner scars
That he refuses to see in the dark.
He won't acknowledge until the end
That I held on to his power
So reliant upon it in the immediate shower, like an umbrella.

He is protected by his complaisant umbrella.
He holds it to the light, so sharp
It is the source of his power.
He inflicts the scars
That will keep amassing, until the end
When we are thrust into a perpetual existence of dark.

Life before the dark
Is simple for him under his umbrella
He has it to shelter him through to the end
Whilst I sit by feeling pain so sharp
As he creates more scars
With his ever deceiving but lustful power.

In the end the tables will turn; that is my salvation, I will be the one who's control is sharp.
Under my umbrella, upon him I will inflict the brutal scars,
And in the dark I will ask him as he clings to me, "How do you like my everlasting power?"

----

However, I know a being who possesses his own magic.
He creates a life for me that is a product of his own delusions and illusions.
He has taught me not to question or fear,
Only to embrace this wondrous realm
And I do, I care not, equip with my new insular soul of stone.
The prescribed soul prevents most everything, and anything I do feel I let decompose, deep inside.

My initial qualms of having to remain in this being’s inside
Disappeared with a quick application of his magic.
He doesn’t waste time arranging stones,
He alters my state of existence, colours my illusions,
It’s a tempera paint by number version of me in this realm.
Like he says, "It’s much like living art, what is there to fear?"

Explained away like that there is nothing for me to fear.
He takes care of everything, including my mental state, here on the inside.
There are very few opportunities for independent thinking in his realm.
He has taught me the tiniest bit of magic
Which helps me to renew my own skewed illusions
When he must leave to intellectually starve himself, to justify what he is doing to me, sequestering himself in a small chamber of stone.

The molten lava that once roared hot and flowed has created huge chasms of stone.
That same lava has replaced his soul long ago I fear.
To imagine that his soul remains pure, as mine once was, would be one of my previous naive illusions,
One I would have believed not so long ago, before I became so changed locked on the inside.
I could not live here without the "assistance" of his magic.
Like he says, I’d be "wandering alone and forgotten in any other realm."

I rely on him for my sanity, being that we are the sole inhabitants of this realm.
He keeps me contained within various chambers of stone.
He secretly knows he could never have me without working his magic,
That is why he must keep me here segregated from all others, with minimal fear.
He knows he can scare me by mentioning how I’m nothing without him, thus I must remain on the inside.
He has me believing that this is the truth; that it’s not one of his illusions.

I shall remain in this realm, not understanding that it is fear,
And not the stone around me that is holding me inside,
And that it’s not really his magic restraining me but my own contorted, self imposed illusions.