Black Poem by Theodore Foster

It is the cheetah,
Racing after its prey,
Then catching up,
And ripping it to shreds,
It is the gladiator,
Who yells 'no mercy, '
And fights to his own death,
It is like a viper,
Curling up,
And getting ready to strike,
It is a hurricane
Barreling forward,
Until something succeeds,
In slowing it down,
It is like a disease,
Turning everything it comes in contact with,
Into nothing,
It is like a star,
Burning with great strength,
Until it burns itself out,
It is the darkness,
That covers everything,
It is the monster under the bed,
Constantly messing with the thoughts,
Up in your head,
It is the sorrow,
That slithers up your back and into your ears,
As you cry and try to push it all away,
It is the one to draw first blood,
It is courage,
Shoving you back onto your feet and making you stand up straight,
To prepare for what's next,
It is the shadows,
Mimicking everyone and everything,
It is the sea,
Wrapping itself around you,
It is tragedy,
Striking quickly and silently,
It is evil,
Smiling at your failures,
It is like a ghost,
Feasting on your soul,
It is reckless greed,
Making you pursue your pleasures at all costs,
It is a black hole,
Slowly sucking you in,
It is depression,
Forcing you down,
And not to talk,
Black is a power that only few can control,
Can you?