The Faces Shadows Wear

The face of a friend. A lover. A guide. A saint.
Whatever you need, they will become.
Not out of kindness,
but out of hunger.

Masters of the grey,
where truth bends and meaning frays,
where lies slip through the cracks
like water through trembling hands.

They dont use swords,
only words, twisted, sharpened, aimed to wound.
They wear so many faces,
they have no face beneath,
love the shadows so much
they almost become one.

It is only there,
in the dim corners where no one looks,
that their true shape lingers
an outline of empty animal rage,
resentment gnawing at the bone,
a shame so deep
they would rather see you burn
than face their reflection.

Do not argue with them.
Do not plead your case.
Their ears are trained to unhear,
their tongues to unravel meaning
until even you forget
what was true in the first place.

Stay close to the light.
They will hiss at its touch,
recoil from its warmth,
for they cannot survive
where truth has nowhere to hide.