BY MAC LOGAN
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.