Mercer's Poems
No Angels Weep

The haunting chariots of despair, fire and flare
cruise their way down roads carved of purest cinnabarite. 
Each one tracing a line from one unhappy place to another
smothering the nearby ashen ground with crimson weeping
always seeping into every corner of my being. 
Every modicum of my existence just another struggle
against this so lusty, desirable, red menace of oblivion. 

Blanket my brain with a veil, and through the thin lace
see the hail, cold and unforgiving send it’s dirty kiss
to everything within my withering, ailing line of sight. 
Fighting against this weather, an unstoppable force of nature
ever determined; how can one fight what one can never defeat?
I long for it. That pallid chalice of purest poison. 
Only the sweet embrace of sour eternity can provide comfort
when torture is the other option. 

The ravenous caw of gulls to me seems like vultures. 
Circling, scavenging, carrion feeders enraptured.
My soul has been captured by the dark. 
And Hark! No angels weep for me. 
No humans neither.