Hideous horse of darkness which cannot be reined,
or pulled to any reasoned stop or place of peace,
but rides the hours of midnight till all is drained;
so does psyche saddle us with no sure release.

Through worlds of dreams and cruel imagining,
the hooves do thunder on our cobbled fears,
allowing nothing in the realms of sleep fulfilling;
draws us on through minutes as if eternal years.

Horror crouches, holding on to sweating beast,
determined not to fall to crushing depths below,
heart pounding as the demons laugh and feast;
so we stay the distance, fast then cruelly slow.

Only in the moments when horizon can be lit,
and daylight draws the torture to a final end,
are we left abandoned, holding rusted, empty bit;
all illusion ended as consciousness does mend.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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2 Responses to

  1. julespaige says:

    I like the that the last stanza, at least to me provides some hope or relief.
    Cheers, Jules

  2. lynn__ says:

    All who’ve ridden that dark horse have awoke with heart pounding…you write of night mares eloquently…the “rusted empty bit” is an intriguing detail.

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