Dark Poetry

Grief came thick as winter fog,
blackened breath and hollowed song,
ghost-white fingers, cold and long,
wrapping where my bones belong.

It touched my throat, it held me still,
climbed my spine against my will;
filled my lungs, then drank its fill,
while silence watched from every sill.

My heat… my soul… will not break clean,
it beats against what might have been,
a wounded thing beneath my skin,
all blood and ruin trapped within.

It strikes my ribs in frantic waves,
like something buried clawing out of graves,
a bleeding chaos none can save,
still begging life to misbehave.

And every beat becomes a bruise,
a crimson prayer I cannot lose;
it tears, it pleads, yet still refuses
to die beneath the weight it chooses.

My spirit wears a darker face,
a shadow stitched where hope once stayed;
the will to live has lost its grace,
and night grows sweeter in its place.

I hear it singing through the walls,
a velvet hymn, a siren’s call;
each day it sharpens, swells, and crawls…
each day it sounds more sweet than false.

A promise of a quiet deep,
a place where broken things may sleep,
where ghostly hands no longer keep
their grieving vigil over me.

But still my ruined heart insists,
still blood returns beneath my wrists,
still dawn comes pale through mourning mist
and finds me somewhere death has missed.

So grief may grip me, whole and tight,
may feed its ghosts throughout the night;
but even shattered hearts can fight…
not out of hope,
but out of spite.