Sight is not failing, though all we see are ebony echoes,
Though shadows seem to dam the eyes, we see.
Amidst the apparitions that bury us in black butterflies,
That snuff out all senses of our bearing, we see.
Suspicion smothers any lingering light as we walk,
Seemingly aimless and entirely afraid, thro’ the valley.
Fear strives to dictate instinct as we succumb to our worst,
Yet somewhere in the profound, we see it differently.
Here in the chasm our instincts determine our fears
And we march to the beat of our own blood, quietly.
Though demons know our trepidation, our fright,
They see not our souls as we sweep thro’ the valley.
Against all anxiety, we turn, and head for the darkness,
To the deepest part of this stygian mystery.
Liberated we gallop, with vigor, to the gauntlet,
Spry as the skulking panther, toward victory.
Despite the moonless night, we carry on,
Walking, upright, thro’ the valley.