Despair

Alone in the dark, the blood of blackberries dripping down his shins, the morning star looking back in the mirror through which he gazes, moon-eyed and at odds with himself, he presses his palms, but the nightmare doesn’t stop. The sky turns and nothing this moment matters. Not even the cold thorns of the blind wind blowing hellward, not even the poisoned rainbow that lights his prayers can give meaning to doubt. The sullen belladonna that pricks his mind will not comfort him in this final hour and no guardian angel will come to touch his brow.