dark poetry

Her name is old, a living thing, a thing with teeth and breath
With blood as cold and lethal as an ancient curse of death
She walks the streets, the concrete bones of this forsaken place
Forgotten by the stars

Like all of us, the souls trapped here in bleak eternal night
The city cries with grim torment, its howls spreading fright
And fear in the minds of those, ill-starred enough to face
Her blood-streaked, heavy scars

I seek the divine,
God or Satan’s advice
To ask them for answers
In this sickening place

(A place called life, that is)

I’d ask them a question,
Voice my sorrow and pain
Why do I have to continue
To suffer, ache, go insane?

(To which they’ll probably laugh)

To live is to fight
A constant battle with life
To breathe is to struggle
Under hardship’s cold knife

(Let me die, let me die, let me die)

Whatever words of wisdom
They may deem most fit to say
– seek meaning within, your fate is yours to define or something along these lines… –
Will mean nothing; I’ll pray
The only prayer I know

That goes
Let me die, let me die, let me die