Souls torment

Pain, raw, visceral haunting,
present always.
Lingering like a plaque infectious,
rotting inside.

Then grey skies,
lingering grey clouds that cover—
the still landscapes
and deep lakes
in grey blankets of mist.

Ponderers might experience
the oppressive air,
like carrying a rucksack,
full of stones.
Sighing,
wondering why this sudden feeling
of unnerving disquietness.

It seeps slowly
through the pores of the skin,
at first unnoticed,
but finally proliferating
like weed in the fields.
Overwhelming in its nature,
it takes control,
suffocating
and tearing ones sanity apart.

In this tormenting
ominous atmosphere,
silence becomes loud,
grim,
a demon with sharp claws.
It hands a mirror,
reflecting a shade
void of joy,
void of colour.

Even before the eyes
of deepest despair,
a little flame
holds tight.
It blooms within the space
where 'is' resides,
when feet are grounded in earth.
and the rhythm of breathing
fills the mind,
eyes shaded
to look within.