The Black - A Darth Vader poem

Here comes the moment Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader in his heart....and the suit closes around his soul....

The Black


The black spirals through my heart,
A grip invisible twisting my plight,
The blade in my hand cuts crimson red,
The blade in my heart cuts dark light.


The black spirals through my lungs,
Breathing embracing murk for crippling air,
Enslaved by life to live with pain immense,
Enslaved by life to die without her hand fair,


The black spirals through my limbs,
Touch cut free of sense and loving skin,
Limited to a machines cold uneartly passion,
Limited to a machines immortal living sin.


The black spirals through the Force,
Dampening even that terrible stroke of unconditional love,
A stroke that every forced reach bleeds my sorrow,
A stroke that every unrequited call draws tears from above,


Yet.

I turn from the black,

Yet.

It still touches my sores with a relentless lapping anguish,
It still touches my heart with a desperate need to perish,

So.

I search outside for the source to the black,
I search outside for the foaming madness that holds me close,

Yet.

I cannot find my heartbeat within that black,
I cannot find her heartbeat within that black.

So.

I search inside for the source of the black.

And I find it.

And I realise, deeply taken aback,

That the dark root lies within.

The black spirals out...

That Darth Vader did nothing,
Anakin Skywalker did everything.

And I scream.

And I scream....

I scream forever more.