That old-thing called darkness

demons encroach upon my mind
a stomping ground for reapers of darkness
sowing seeds of old habits, where
pullulating weeds flourish

my brain has become infested.

Pests!

..pollute my thoughts-
optimism wilts;
learnings uprooted
wreaths are woven with stems

a pungent scent of failure circulates the air;
the atmosphere-
hosts an odious aftertaste

my vulnerability
is held to ransom
wounds are undressed and raped.
From where resolution bleeds,
weakness sets in,
my heart forced under pressure
gasping in silence

I can almost sense its eyes rolling
around with laughter!

-in my face
vision becomes dark and overcast
and tears rain heavily
in floods of denial

my anxiety-
tender upon its palette;
like meat which has been hung
and cured for years, melts
in its mouth

it displays no intolerance
to my grief and despair
as I am swallowed
up.