The Black Dog Poem by Dave SmithWhite

A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.

I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.

Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.

The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.

My limber friends fawn and smile,
to render pity to the unruly child.
I curse their tenderness, I spit and snarl,
baying at the moon.

I drank the poison from the vial,
and saw my visions from exile.
An addict's life can be a trial,
baying at the moon.

Some arcane instinct, I cannot tell.
Repellant in it's ancient smell,
craven fear made visceral,
baying at the moon.

The jealous gods have unleashed the hounds.
The pack scent blood and my weeping wounds;
the chase is on, my life in ruins,
baying at the moon.

A gauntlet run that lasts for miles,
exhausts the body and the mind's denials.
Love is madness and we're all beguiled,
baying at the moon.