adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, August 14, 2005

TORMENT

Now, there is nothing –
no hope, no love –

only the pit
and the demons within.

They clamor my name.
Each night they call;

call me to join them
and it would be easy

to trade one torment
for this other.

For God hates those
who hate themselves;

the blood grows sour,
the body offers

no salvation.
I fall asleep,

praying the morrow
to die stillborn.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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