The Demon Hunt

What a pathetic spectacle she makes – The wordless poet, sunk in her stupor of defeated uninspired misery She sits alone in the darkness, Encompassed in her imprisoning spotlight of gloom Surrounded by a million lights of happy souls Their joyous glimmers dancing over her skin That sallow rotting canvas She cannot feel their warmth nor reach out to touch them Isolation claimed her long ago Wracked by internal anguish she writhes Tearing her lacklustre hair out in clumps Her bloodless lips gape Quivering, her vocal chords rend and tear, Her screams resonating as silence on suffocating desert thermals No one heeds her plea, No one opens their eyes to see the torture she endures No one spots the tears of blood dripping from her red-veined eyes No one...no one The world of selfish blasé humanity forsook her long ago The only company she keeps now are the demons of her mind Those shapeless spectres of doom and death An army of Reapers in miniature they torment her Prodding the diseased flesh of her soul with their malicious scythes Taunting her into a foam-lipped frenzy of fright and despair ‘Hell waits for you’ they say, ‘it is but a last lapsed heartbeat away…’ Impregnating her thoughts with suicide they laugh Urging her on towards that fated razor’s blade That sharpened point where life’s inadequacies splutter and fail Rusted and stained yet it still shines Intoxicating her with its omnipotent gifts Its promises of a ticket to the raven’s realm of Never-never more Where darkness reigns in benevolent black pomp And the cruel sun is quenched And love is nothing more but a dim memory The shadow of a whisper of a sensation of a regret… And this poor daughter of angst feels anguish no more Her knife edge of pain blunted to ash And the tears of her heart drying up Congealing on the ground, a cold crimson fossil of a life that is No more