The Perfector

The way he walks makes me shudder and sweat
His breaths are silent, my palms are getting wet
He is always close, in the periphery of my sight
Why does he infect me with his presence? His sickness drains all light

He has me kneeling, not in body but in mind
He has never spoken, yet he is the one that commands me
The cuts, the burn marks, are those his doing or my own?
In my confusion, he embraces me and eases my pain

My behavior conducted by the one that infects my mind
My persona perfected, though into madness it winds

Oh lord, why have you forsaken me?
The pain is unbearable