Even the meekest of the mild
Has a shadow, dark and wild,
Spinning webs of pained deceit
And boiling blood with angered heat.
It creeps and climbs within the soul,
And paints the thoughts black as coal.
It covets, crushes and bewails
All thats good, and thus prevails
With evil schemes to claim, destroy
Every ounce of purest joy.
And yet it holds a sacred place
Within our hearts, a state of grace.
“Good” and “bad” it so defines
Accents the light and draws the lines
Presses forth unknown desires
And kindles life’s greatest fires
And so we celebrate the day,
That the shadows come out to play.