Take His Hand

This is one of my oldest poems. I wrote it in my early 20s. I figured I’d throw it out here, because … reasons.

Contorted faces wracked with pain
scream with voices no one hears
distorted fears descend like rain
on shattered souls who drown in tears
sordid horrors drive those insane
who seek out death that only nears
But pain carries not death’s release;
take my hand, and share your sorrow.

Needy helpless men who bare their
hidden fears for close inspection
seedy, empty men linger where
they live on without detection
greedy, godless “saviors” who tear
hearts apart for their collection
But pain carries not death’s release;
take my hand, and share your sorrow.

Pain-filled days go on unending
turn to nights … that come unheeded
painful memories, unbending
fraught with horrors undefeated
pain-wracked nights keep on descending
anguished lifetimes then repeated
But pain carries not death’s release;
take my hand, and end your sorrow