As ghostly as a graveyard
In the murky depths of night,
His eyes are like extinguished fires,
Long gone the gift of light.

A tortured spirit screams inside,
Though outwardly he’s numb:
This tragedy of broken dreams
And nightmares yet to come.

Bereft of love and self-respect,
Forbidding and forlorn,
He turns his anguish on himself
And rues that he was born.

The poignancy is palpable
Now hope and faith have gone.
All progress has been sabotaged
And just the clock ticks on.

He used to know self-confidence
And practise self-control.
The drive to thrive – not just survive –
Once sparkled in his soul.

There was a time when self-esteem
Stopped by and stayed a while,
But that was in another world
That withered with his smile.

The black clouds of despondency
Cast anchor overhead,
Now nothing seems worth anything
And joie de vivre is dead.

Too fragile, oversensitive:
Each failing keenly felt;
He folded when he tried to play
The hand that he was dealt.

Relationships disintegrated,
Blessings turned to dust;
His home and work lives shattered,
Leaving solely self-disgust.

Mistakes were made – transgressions, fights –
And he could not atone.
The friends he had abandoned him
To face his fate alone.

He stares at his reflection
In the glass he can’t put down,
Seeing nothing but subservience
To sorrows that won’t drown.

His self-fulfilling prophecy,
‘I shan’t amount to much’,
Has paved the way to martyrdom
With alcohol the crutch.

He smoulders in the darkness,
Deep in self-destructive thoughts,
And wards off interactions
With curt ready-made retorts.

If only priests or doctors
Could return him to his health,
But nobody can save a man
Who cannot help himself.

The prospect of redemption
Perished many moons ago.
The meltdown feeds the maelstrom
To the underworld below.

The remnants of self-medicated
Mayhem swirl the void.
A hopeful life worth living
Has been wholly self-destroyed.

Copyright © Ross A Adamson. All Rights Reserved.