SOUL RAVENS

Tuesday, May 6, 2008
4:12 AM

A Poet's Death Struggle

No more can i hear the wind in the leaves,
That once used to be a cheerful gale.
The grasses rustle no more,
And within them, the song of crickets have been silenced.
Night blankets the land. Clouds entrap the very stars that
My hope has so largely depended upon.
Even the moon glows with a sickly incandesence.

But more dominating than the darkness that encroaches
Upon my fragile peace, is the oppression of silence.
A deep silence. A dead silence.
So cold, so impenetrable
So utterly merciless in it's very presence
That my very soul is chained and imprisoned.
Locked in my very mind.

Silence of the mouth. Silence of the soul.
Even the physical embodiment of my life,
My words in writing,
Have been twisted beyond all comprehension.
Cursed to a mummery of nonsense
That would be better of anulled.
I have no longer recourse to my ancient gift.

Stumbling on in eternal darkness.
Lost within as much as without.
And alone! So alone. More alone than i believed possible.
There is no one else out there,
In this damned land of loss, of suffering.
Of insanity, soon to be.
No more than a beast in the wilderness, hunting naught but himself.

A hole in my heart. Pierced with Cupid's arrow,
And wrenched out with all the force
That mighty Hercules' arm can grant.
A ragged hole. A dreadful hole. A void. A gap.
A lacking of what makes a Man. A man.
His very soul, his being, his existence.
Reduced to something, lesser. Insignificant.

A withered candle. A faded light. Soon to be
Snuffed out by the very darkness, and it's compatriot.
Wearied, i trip. Falling headfirst into oblivion.
A welcome forgetfulness that lack of consciousness brings.
A joy to my dying self.
Signing off with a twitch of the wrist,
I bid myself Adieu! to this world.

Romulus Demonicus