The Fallen being sits quietly in the shadows.
It lives here now, down.
          It's existence continues,
          and it attempts
to maintain the progression of its life
with the way it is now.

It hates what it has become.
It hates what it desires,
          the thoughts
          the suggestions
that its mind puts forth to it,
entirely of its own volition.
The Fallen is not in control of its own mind.
The Fallen combats its own thoughts,
constantly stricken with images and urges
that it utterly loathes
and is repulsed by,
even as it desires to partake in them.

It sobs, but can no longer cry,
its eyes tainted by the dark corruption
that has overtaken its body.

          It knows –
                    that everything would be simple –
Its life could be straightforward,
          could be direct,
but for this complication,
this lack of control.
All its goals, all its dreams,
end up conflicting with this corruption:
held back or complicated or thrown off course.

Another thought comes, and the being shakes
          with want
then stops.
          it sobs again.

silence

          shake
          sob

silence.