My Monsters, Original Poetry by Thomas Martin Saturday


My monsters rise up as misty blackness
from the graveyard you just walked past,
shredding your dreams, hopes that rise,
with razor teeth,
claws that clench
pressing tight to strangle breath,

they compel you to think of nothing but of what you’ve lost
late into endless nights,
the hopeless time of suicide
bringing demons far and wide,

shrunken veins and arteries cold, thin, uselessly blue-black,
just like late november tree branches, empty, disconsolate hang
white mists, grays, fading browns, and confounding fog,

tossed on a sea of failures you must remember,
that make you weep melancholy tears

for lost loves, multitudinous blunders, a long life wasted
in creative dissipations, looking for what is easy
among so many gods,

rusting souls moving like cloud shadows
deprived of purpose, sightless, deaf, unconscious impiety
running from amoral hordes of the damned,

my monsters pursue you into cosmic corners of disgust and self-loathing,
so intense
as to chase all loving thoughts, banishing hopes into cages unreachable
from a mind already diseased,
absent of realization of things right and good,

simply sliding ever downward
into the black oblivion
the black hole that makes all things vanish,
a nullity so complete that it bears no interpretation, insentient,

or you may choose a way
not to let them get you,
turning to the light
in some last sliver of time
warming the soul,
leading it to the long sought promised land

divinely wished
not easily bought,
where love is all there is.

Copyright and All Rights Reserved by Thomas Martin Sobottke 2014

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