Poetry

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Comes the Dark, Comes the Whispers

(c) 2004 David Ian


Daylight is gone;
Last glowing embers
From sky’s twilight cooled.
Blanket of night hovers and smothers the house
Windows matted in inky hues.
Outside the feeble porch light
Swallowed by a black maw gaping.
In the quiet, in the night,
Comes the Dark, comes the whispers.
The Dark -- it lurks, it breathes, it lives.

I flip the switches but still remains
The corners, the closets, the cupboards,
The long, long hall with no fixture above or aside.
Dark has gotten in, and has settled to stay
No longer a prisoner from the blinding light of day
The echo of silence is deafening
As I feel myself cry, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”
But I can only hear the whispers, the whispers.
My endless tormentors who know no rest
The Voices -- they lurk, they breathe, they live.

Many voices, though sometimes one;
A cacophony of chaos, or clear and concise.
No difference, they are the same, always the same.
An unbearable Litany, my crimes, my woes;
Never ending, relentless, tireless, ageless,
Like the Hound of Hell I am dogged at the heels.
Comes the hunt, the baying and barking
The swirling surrounding whispers.
The Whispers -- they lurk, they breathe, they LUNGE!

Though I am blind,
Frantic I run
O God! O God!
Where is thy Sun?

The Shadows would hide
The Darkness would flee
The Whispers would shriek
And I would be free

But I cannot hide
And great must I flee;
My soul it does shriek
And ne’er I’ll be free

…And to the dark depths
the Man alone runs
chased by the demons
of his conjuration

Fly away! Fly away!
With terror and fright
For in spurning the Sun
He’s alone with the Dark

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