Empty
Darkness swells across the misty moors.
Silent shapes, heaving-weaving.
The silver moon slowly grows black,
as all warmth disappears from the dead maniac sun.
Quiet moans echo with fever.
Indistinct voices swell and tell,
of stories no one hears or listens.
The memory of hope long ago distant.
In this sight devoid of light,
there is but one option:
submit yourself, or be reduced to madness.
There is room only for joyous malice!
What is this place?
You do not know?
Nor him, or all mankind?
Why- it's my mind.
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
Comments are closed for this poem.