Mysteries In The Dark Poem by Laci LeBlanc

You clasp your pillow, and attempt to rest, your restless head.
Fraudulent figures sweep the darkness,
They cackle and scream, the silence carries a weight of lead.

Your eyes are lonely, they create frightening silhouettes among this great black shadow,
Your ears are anxious, they shriek out whispers of confusion and wait for an answering bellow.

An answer is never heard, a false figure cannot touch,
A dream world has occurred, and reality is too much.

Sleep has not come, but darkness is there.
Such a vicious catalyst for visions,
An impostor of a friend.
A friend of false collisions,
Of what is the beginning and the end.

Darkness poisons the senses of every soul,
Perception becomes contorted, in this anxious air of black coal.
You ask the darkness for peace, for distinction of what is real,
Yet the torture does not cease, and the pain of the unknown, you continue to feel.

Your eyes strain for distinction, your ears battle to hear,
But you see a blur and you hear a hiss, and what you feel is fear.

You lie upon your bed frozen in the darkness of fear and the fear of darkness.
You feel the fangs of fright pierce through your hide and the chills of fear slithering up your side.

The darkness is exhausting, it grips you tight,
Your senses are fatigued, too much so to fight.
The darkness squeezes your body, it steals from you your breath,
Your insides are burning, as if you are nearing death.

You are a prisoner in this lightless abyss,
Prey to this virulent viper, who will not desist.
The coils wrapped around you, the poison in your brain,
In this disarray of the unknown, you feel you are insane.

Your blood seems to sting your veins, and scorch your tiring heart.
The energy in your body drains, and your soul and body depart.

You feel devoured, by this python of panic,
You feel the presence, of something satanic.

Yet you know, the room should be stark,
But who can be sure, of the mysteries in the dark.

Only from weariness, does your spirit balm,
Tumult ends in dreariness, in troubled calm.
In the angst of this spell, your vigor depleted,
Though still fearful, your resistance is defeated.

At last you surrender, to the serpent of sleep,
And at last you rest in splendor, perhaps a little too deep.