Grasping for the shattered fragments of what little is left of truth as sustenance, they only gain control of the mire and the shattered fragments of the dreams that once led out into the battlegrounds that is now.
Seeking out the last of their kind, they bleed, and in their need, taste the lure of destruction, their own parasites.
Husks, they are left unwanted and unmourned to die, but their lack of honor survives, and they live, things.
Darkness, that is not so resolute as the burning that is void. Light, that is not yet so known, perhaps less so.
They see the dark as light, and cannot enter it's blinding presence, thus they languish, burned by that which cools their thoughts.
Even as they turn from their own whispering shadows, the leavings of soul is shaken from them, and they emerge, those of the pure void.
Evil has no hold, for such descriptions are far beyond the petty box of one and two, and into the meanings of all, on off, on void, all void.
Would that void, simple nothing, lack, was passive, and drew no blood, but all seeks void to fill. Perhaps it is an unending war, as all seeks to kill void. Is void a pacifist, or should we assume hidden mechanizations, plots that sunder and rift. But again, if void were to plot, it would only betray itself, thus at least it holds some level of innocence.
Perhaps the circle is found, as evil is evil, and good good, as it is just a name, no matter where or what, and inescapable. It is better still to acknowledge that they are at the same time both, and inseperable.