Heavy is his Soul

Heavy is his Soul

Heavy is his Soul












Tortured hanging there, the Raven

perches above my mind, contemplating

how to inspire this poet, release his

inspirations, create a verse or two.


How does he draw it forth? He has

already served him so well, entering

his chamber at night, comforting his

soul as it wept, licking the wounds of

cuts bestowed upon him by his infliction

and addictions.


Yet this poet hangs there, suspended

in his world of confusion and hatred for

injustices cursed upon him. He battles

with depression, madness, creativity

and loss of it.


Oh the darkness, bleakness tightens

the chains around his wrists, cutting

deeply, opening up old wounds.

His body shackled and held tight by

his Muse, nothing comes forth, he

is dry, an empty vessel.


All his life he dripped of sadness, saw

the injustices, felt the sorrows of others,

wept with them too. He knew that a

cross was nearby, clutching it, he hung

it around a neck of emptiness.


Although he knew his life was to be cut

short, time was important to him, gifts

were reaching out to him, take them,

use all of it, leave not a word to linger

too long, before they vanish into thin air.


Grab what life offers you, for no telling

when the well would run dry. Ripping

the cross from his sacrament body,

he flings it against space and watches

it slips through beyond the ripped vale.


So pinned to this cold, cold wall, chained

to it in outer darkness, poet and Raven

listen intently, they know this poet well,

the Raven his subject for years, stood

by him under dim light, saw him penning

his work, knew that all was not well, yet

perched silently, always knowing that

words would come to the poet and his

quill would once more be blackened and

drip onto his parchment before him,

opening up one verse after another,

turning the page or tossing it to the

abyss under his desk.


Pages of worthless feelings that

amounted to meaningless spittle.


Vincent Moore 2016


Heavy is his Soul — 2 Comments

    • Don this piece delves into the lost indeed. I was one of those and in still many ways, still am lost. My expression of deep feelings flowed from my pen the past few years. However of late
      it has left me. I believe I was touched by a spiritual Muse who allowed a moment in time for me to pen my deepest feelings and then vanished. It’s been close to six months since I’ve had
      any desire to write. Truly my inspiration is at an all time low. Maybe I window was opened for just a little while, knowing that I was a lost soul, who had to release his inner pains. Thankyou
      dear fellow writer and poet for your generous comment, much appreciate. I hope all is well with your soul.

Leave a Reply