Wailing is heard in darkness behind heavy black curtains;
The sorrowful long for the light,
But the darkness constantly whispers—
Cradling in its womb like a perpetually pregnant mother.
An umbilical cord of despondency feeds its blind baby;
The child is gaunt and withered within four walls;
Its amniotic sac of agony is the purgatory of dark halls.
The melancholic stumble listlessly,
Holding on to wooden bannisters lest they fall.
The precious tears of the tormented are cried in unbridled lamentation;
The flesh is weary, but still sleep is not found.
In the hell of insomnia the afflicted are bound.
The dark mother tries to sooth her kicking child
With the singing of perfidious lullabies;
It is calculating and vicious in its lies.
There must be a delivery for the baby to survive.
Dark pupils must see the sunshine;
The mother’s milk must not be ingested—
It is the milk of unceasing agony and poison;
Her whispers of love and safety are not genuine.
She causes the once strong to fall to their knees and crawl.
The tears of her children are scattered between anguished calls;
Witness the final moments of her torment
On blood soaked sheets and blood spattered walls.
See the transfixed open eyes of those that long cried.
No reprieve was found; there was no sunshine.
There was no light to illuminate desolate nights;
Still, the darkness whispers, trying to sell her wares.
The light must be found lest they all disappear;
At 4 AM, in darkness, gaunt hands rub against walls feeling for stairs;
In front of unlit fireplaces, in worn chairs,
The despondent sit listlessly;
In darkness, they stare.