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.
"You are alone," it gently sighs,
"The world would never know your name,
No one will grieve, no one will cry,
Why bear this endless, futile pain?"
It wears the mask of empty solace,
A friend in moments frail and weak,
A false embrace of coldest promise,
A kiss upon a deathly cheek.
It knows the wounds that time has left,
The hidden scars that never fade,
It whispers of a painless rest,
And beckons toward the silent shade.
Yet in its hands there lies deceit,
Its lips are stained with stolen breath,
For what it gives is never peace,
But only endless, hollow death.
But listen—hear the stronger voice,
The one that fights against the tide,
The voice that breaks the specter's chains,
And casts its venomous grip aside.
For light still lingers, faint but real,
A trembling spark, a fragile glow,
And though the night feels vast, unyielding,
The dawn will come—you need to know.
The evil spirit waits in silence,
It starves when hope is given breath,
It shrinks when love ignites defiance,
And flees before the light of death.
So hold on tight through storm and sorrow,
Let courage be your guiding star,
The night may whisper of no morrow,
But dawn still breaks, no matter how far.
