Night Streaks

In the midnight layers of lament
groping for some azure streaks in sanity
amid all the sobs of loneliness.
And for each sojourn though mazes
of the dark and biting memories
from detours into depression.

Oh if melancholy wasn’t a banshee
that came to life after dark,
possessed and destroyed dreams
until the black of eve
became a smothering death shroud.

If only there was a way out
of the abyss where self hate
wasn’t the torturer
with some voice that could come
who would shred the stillness
by a hint that love existed.

Tomorrow’s sun will not warm,
it will have no light to set ablaze
the cold emptiness and end the urge
to find mercy in ways,
which mutter sobs no one hears
or will bring a rope
lifting out of the valley
filled with snakes and monsters
other than as a hangman’s noose.