The Darkest Hour Of Day Poem by Vincent Dali

Writing is for the tortured soul
Writing toward a tortured goal
As without a soul like the dark raven that flew
Out of sight into anew
A new that was not yet perfect
But may as well do
Do what it can to help the skeleton understand

Why his closet is endless in darkness
The door slammed and locked
No key could ever unlock this door
Not even the skeleton’s key, his bony hand he implores
Trapped once ago, in the past, and before
Ah, how all the angels and their grace vexes
The skeleton’s nonexistent heart worse than before
Before! Before! He knew the lonesome darkness behind his door
Or better yet what this door held in store

Between the darks cold, morbid hands of blackened decay
Even Lucifer presses his damned palms together to pray
For even the prince of all this darkness could never bare it alone
Even hellfire cast light aglow
The nightmare that seems-
To scheme
On the tip of the serpent’s tongue
Is cast and hung on this spinning Globe

Perfection is the Art that they teach us
Complication is the Art that they feed us
Rejection is the Art that frees us
From all this vanity and depersonalization
Ah! How the pen and the rose and the lover grant such inspiration

Even the mortal angel feels the entangle able ecstasy in her skinless dreams
Demons lurk in the hall, angels wait by the door
So that these wicked ones may stitch their seems
It seems to me
One who simply seems to be?
That her beautiful eyes must vex me
To no end in sight
Yet in sight I see this angel
In this darkness is sadness and pain
All is not in vain
For it is all shattered by love’s burning light
Yet even lust so fiery and bright-
Can not pleasure every demon of the night

For the corpse hidden, after its life taken away
Shall be given a skeleton in the closet of this day
Buried below the Earth, below the Son, and just below the skin
Lies secrets the mind can not befriend
Even deeper laid away, the sins the soul can not condemn
Bottomless may be the pit, which the broken heart can not begin to fill
Yet, this shattered and broken heart’s only revenge
Is to savor its last piece and pretend
That its pain filled voyage never began
Yet, even in the slums of grief it has a tale to tell
Even in its darkest hour it dreads the day it fails