The Chalice of Night

Pain pierces, like switch blades, within, I bleed, Howls of dry weary lands, in mind, I heed; Heart, haunted, endlessly hustles-bustles, Sleep so sleepless; fright in fearful puzzles; Love; its loss; its longing; long languishing, My chalice is bitter; peace-vanishing... I hate; yet, her face blows glows everywhere, Like fallen angel; grayish grave mirror; Broken into thousand cubes; she in each, Smiling, laughing; crying; with breach and bleach; Taunting, tearing, teasing abundantly, Pain of this bitter chalice sores bluntly... It's not like Jesus Christ choosing his cross, Nor like Sisyphus with boulder did toss; It’s a battle between me and my self, Worsened with her entry, like tight-locked shelf; Leave me, cheat, who, now, in another's hug, I'll drink this cup; die in the grave I've dug... 24 January 2022 The Chalice of Night Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke