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
Copyright © Amy Van De Casteele | Year Posted 2009
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