Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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In the heart of the night, under the leaden and weeping sky

In the heart of the night, under the leaden and weeping sky,
amidst the twisted shadows of our thoughts,
we let ourselves be carried by a cold wind, cold as a kiss of death,
falling into the abyss of our hidden fears,
that chain our souls with shackles of cowardice,
a silent disease that makes us see terrifying illusions,
strange and alive, like ghosts.
We are the ones who hold ourselves back,
locked in cages of fleeting names and identities,
too scared to move, too timid to live,
like wooden puppets controlled by invisible strings,
puppeteers hidden in the shadows, manipulating our amygdala,
that small, almond-shaped portion,
the oldest part of our brain,
the ancient organ that detects and organizes responses to fear,
a stone guardian in the midst of the storm.
They do it intentionally, with movies and laws, with TV programs and schools,
with justice and lies,
a grotesque spectacle staged just to maintain control over us,
and we, like hypnotized spectators,
find in this a bitter sadness,
a dark part that laughs in our faces,
a macabre irony that watches us with empty, cold eyes.
I lose myself in this labyrinth of melancholy,
as my thoughts flow like a river of ink,
writing on the unseen pages of the night,
seeking an exit, an escape from this captivity of fear,
but I always return to the same point,
a vicious circle that swallows me, and my amygdala,
that old and weary organ, flinches at every noise,
at every shadow, like a frightened animal before a predator.
We cling to dreams like colorful balloons,
hoping they will lift us above this realm of shadows and illusions,
but we are too heavy, too anchored in fear,
and the balloons burst one by one,
letting us fall back into the darkness,
in this theater of pain and fear,
where we are so small, so lost.
In the end, only we and our fears remain,
dancing a sad waltz under the pale light of the moon,
enveloped in melancholy, seeking answers in the silence of the night,
but finding only the echoes of our own fears,
like whispered voices in the dark depths of our souls.

Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024

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