Treasure Island

David Harris

(18 June 1945 / Bradfield, England)

Dark Soul

Dark souls that won’t let go
of nightmares driven deep.
Rage bottled up in torment
of troubles long since gone.
The predatory conscience
confused by right and wrong
consumes the living entity
to leave an empty shell.
Deep into desolation falls
the stricken shell deprived of life and living
to live with doom and gloom.
Where will the ending be
when life is finally consumed?
Is there a light somewhere
to drive the demons from this head?
Is there salt to throw on the wounds
for years have continually bled?
Is there hope buried deep
in the eternal hopelessness
the dark souls have fallen into?
So many questions without answer
deprive the freedom’s light.
How far do you have to fall
before something tugs
to draw you back
from deaths dark maw?

22 March 2014

Submitted: Saturday, April 12, 2014

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Topic(s): Depression

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  • Gnossienne (4/12/2014 12:27:00 PM)

    Ah The Dark Night of the Soul, I know it well...
    Beautifully written poem David. (Report) Reply

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