The Myth of Dichotomy

Ain't you pleased to make

my tainted acquaintance?

Seize this blackened hand

and shake it, my saintly

new friend.

Spend no brain space

on worry, it's no paint

or dye that I might

rub off, dear diametric dude,

and frankly, it was rude

of you to ask,

but I'll let it slide.

I'd hate to hide

behind a snide divider

of spiritual, social animosity.

Like the hippies say,

but don't believe,

"Forgive and forget,"

or,

"You get what you give,"

or something.

Since you're curious

as to what gives

my every digit its luxurious,

necrotic tint,

here's a freshly minted hint,

right off the dome:

to use the modern nomenclature,

certain Dark magics

are tragically forbidden

according to the pageantry-

ridden edicts of

the Light.

Insightful,

insufferable, beautiful bastards,

you love to be right.

You see, the dastardly

dwimmercraft I'm after

when I "daftly," dive

into the abyss

is mystifying

in the pure, undeniable

nature of its power.

Born, as it is, of dour,

dusk-filled, dawnless depths,

it showers

its bearers in unfettered

capability,

but comes with a price

apart from the culpability

of it all.

Use your imagination.

Still, if you answer its call,

its ovation

of your potential,

what you'll find at its center

is so joyously ironic,

it'll brighten the rest

of your days with sardonic

laughter.

Same goes for that

antipodal path of yours.