Dark Moods

The Lonely Soul

A lonely soul that wanders wide,
O'er stony hills and branbly paths,
Through dismal, darken'd, dreary woods,
Where all the trees are cold and wet,
And drooping leaves weep rainy tears,
All sounds within that gloomy dell,
Are like the bitter knell of doom,
But still, my soul, would wander on,
Across the swampy, marshy fen,
In hope that it may find a place,
In which at last it might find peace.

Despondent

Pondering, sighing,
Wond'ring, crying,
And so my weary days are sped,,
Hopefully dreaming,
Hopelessly scheming,
Until I seek my quiet bed,
Bitterly lying,
Silently denying,
Afraid to say my hopes have fled.

Desolation

The moon is cold, a sharpened scythe,
The time is over late and dead,
The dream-trees have forgotten how,
To leaf themselves again in hope,
The barren earth cannot return,
It's once so fulsome harvest yield,
The birds their songs cannot recall,
With rasping notes, they break the still,
The sleepless one plods on in pain,
Through worlds that once were fresh and green.

Lost Soul

The visioned time has now arrived,
When life is but a stupid jest,
And ev'ry dream is dust and ash,
Estranged from hopes, God-blest.

Ah dream ye, dream ye, while ye may,
Too soon, too soon, it's done,
And lost for aye is joyousness,
And bitter sorrows won.

Death Cold

The cold crept into ev'ry heart,
It filled the empty crevices,
And turned each heart back to it's own,
The tendrils of each person's love,
Were drawn again into the heart,
And ev'ry soul was quite alone.

And like a snail, each soul began,
To make a cell away from life,
Away from human comradeship,
And life died out and death held reign.
As man denied his fellowman,
And love from his own soul did strip.

Dismal Swamps

The moisture-laden stagnant air.
Has laid it's clammy hand on me,
The very clothing that I wear,
Is wet and hot and won't hang free.

The squish and slosh whene'er I walk,
Is like a shot within the gloom,
A snakes's eyes watch me like a hawk,
And seem to wish to bring my doom.

Pessimist

Sere and barren trees,
Dry and parched the earth,
From which my silent heart still flees.

About me spring is green
And summer comes apace,
While everywhere new life is seen.

But death is in my eye,
And yearning clouds my view,
So from my sight their beauties fly.

Alone

Home alone, am I, 'tis true,
Though I have no lack of friends or family
Yes many have gone ahead,
Husband, parents, grandparents,
Aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers.

But still I do not feel alone,
I see them in my mind.
Feel their presence,
As though they were not far away.
Reassurance of family care and love.

So which is right - are they with me?
Or simply dwelling in my mind as memories?

.By Myself

This day I spent alone,
Denied the rapier thrusts of wit,
My own quicksilver mind,
Was only too content to quit.

My joyous laugh was quenched,
In blue and thoughtful loneliness,
It is so hard to speak,
My stubborn silence to confess.

Despair

I care not where my life is spent,
In crowded halls or lonely caves,
I care not how my life is spent,
In humble place or fame's bright gleam,'
I care not when my life is spent,
In years to come or yet today.
For all my prayers have been in vain,
The one desire that I have known,
Has been denied my anxious heart.


Loss

If I had looked on death, my heart,
I could not be much more alone,
Than I am now, that you are gone.
The terrors of the night have come,
A night of writhing, creeping things,
Of hate that kills and love that stings.

Memory

Yes, you may hide those treasures dear,
That linked our hearts in love before,
Yet through the night in dreams so clear,
The past parades from mem'ries store.

Fred

A cynic, you, and why sir?
When life is such a question mark?
You'd think you'd solved the whole world's woes,
And all of life was but a lark.

The Cynic

A kindly word is spoken now,
A harsh and bitter later on,
In after days, is good recalled,
The hasty word, instead come back,
To haunt the mem'ry of the past.

Break the Cup

The cup of life is broken now,
And so the bitter wine is spilled,
It once was sweet with love's own joy,
Until a poison turned it sour,
The poison of a bitter hurt,
Who likes a sour and bitter wine?
So, break the cup and spill it now.

All is NOT Well

The lonely, haunted ways are mine,
The paths were sorrow reigns,
And in the hushed' still is heard,
The breaking of my heart.
The stillness should, perhaps, be balm,
To wounded heart and soul,
Instead the bitterness wells up,
And tears away my calm.
My weak pretence, that all is well.