The Evil Spirit of Suicide
It whispers in the dead of night,
A voice so soft, yet sharp as knives,
A shadow slinking through the mind,
A serpent coiling, seeking lives.
No face, no form, yet always near,
It slithers through the cracks of thought,
A parasite that feeds on fear,
A demon from the depths distraught.
It speaks in echoes, dark, profound,
In syllables of poisoned lies,
It weaves its web where hope once bloomed,
And blinds the soul with hollow eyes.