Darkling Mine


There, in the brooding shadow lies

a darkling heart that never cries,

Nor sheds a tear or even cares

if terror grips you unawares.


It pricks soul’s peace with awful dreams

and hears your moans and silent screams.

You’re paralysed in quaking daze

as demons stew a cruel braise.


And so you baste in what-might-be.

The torment, doom-filled fallacy.

Stress bites hard, corrodes your soul

and once tight-gripped one cannae thole.


The Darkling claws, obsidian-sharp,

may drag you moaning o’er the scarp.

A writhing ball, you fall away,

till brightening glows the light of day.


Twisted in bedclothes you lie

and wake to day one op’ning eye.

What solace is the hamster’s wheel?

Is anguish all we truly feel?


Copyright Mac Logan

Mac Logan is a Scottish Poet & Author.

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