When Darkness Comes

When darkness comes

When the darkness comes,

It blocks out the light.

Hovering overhead to drown me in delight.

A cruel, damp, and soggy mess.

Pours itself into my soul.

While it gasps for air and scratches for life,

My soul sputters and spits the vile mess.

Fighting for life it takes a deep breath,

Takes hold of the darkness and strangles it to death.

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Anne Frank poetry

Death March

By Dawn Illsley

We marched like dead souls,

Through hallways, not stopping.

Not daring.

Like the end was our fate.

I feel the shame,

The disgrace.

We quietly weeped,

As we shuffled upstairs,

It’s still, silence I heard,

On that ghostly trek.

My life faded away,

I was stuck there in that place,

Reality dissolved,

Time took a break.

Those little rooms,

Housing ghosts.

The walls paper thin like a dolls house.

Why is it,

Words pour out,

When tears are flowing.

I saw a pile of shoes

They didn’t need anymore.

Telling a story

Of loss,

Of life never led.

A pile of shoes,

In someone’s porch,

makes me think,

Of that day in May.

The deafening silence.

That I witnessed.

The life that was erased.

(Visiting the Anne Frank Museum)

Fallen leaves poetry

Fallen Leaves

I wish I could collect fallen leaves,

Like I did when I was five,

They were beautiful to me,

I collected one of every shape and Colour,

Just to be fair.

I wanted to save them, give them a home that was warm, and dry.

I thought they would stay alive forever,

If I cared enough.

But like everything,

Their beauty faded,

Dried up, cracked, turned to dust.

I didn’t understand like I do now.

Trying to keep something alive that is dead is futile.

Now their beauty reminds me of the fragility of life.

Dawn Illsley

Good morning poetry

Good morning

By Dawn Illsley

Roaring wind lulls me to another place.

Quiet breathing in the margins of my mind.

Pressing thoughts, bossy and demanding,

yank me from my reprieve to reality.

There’s a call for spring outside the window.

An urgent call from a little bird whose hungry.

Then out comes the sun, like a little answered prayer.

The light creeps across the room,

Warming the spot on the floor,

Soon to be occupied

By a little furry beast,

Desperate for warmth.

On the windowsill,

The pink blooms are dried up,

Not the end,

But it seems hopeful for more.