Deceptive chant of illusory creation

Upon a thunder,
sunken in lamp-light's dusty glow,
I bethink myself
to what put my mind at quite unease;
loneliness it may be
or is there something, something darker to it?

Upon a tuft of shadows
that just budged - swear it did -
I reflect prudently
not to wake the silence accidently,
for its stillness is exterior
of the storm that rendered me inferior
Upon a thought,
wandering into lands uknown,
on it could I frown
on another common night - perhaps -
that'd be likely to elapse
but to-night sunders me apart

Upon the heart
of darkness which I cradle
deep inside, it warbles
not of joy, not of childish terror
but of unaware exposure
to my mind sickly twists' disclosure

Upon my word,
uttered like a prayer mutely
in a chapel forlorn absolutely:
"Be there someone by the Duce?"
There it echoed, empty curse
and the void - its mother - it embraced

Upon the poem
which draws to an end
I had found myself beguiled and rent
For the thunder struck again
Lighting gnarled hands
which bore darkness
       and wrote darkness
           on a paper's skullwhite face