Shell of imaginary imagination

Caught in the tangled weeds of busy nothing.
A mind fraught and frayed in the vines of life.
I wait for god to cut me free.
To untangle my mind.
Yet in my sleepy weariness I hear.
A starlight voice that tickles the back of my neck.
And turns each shake into a shiver.
God whispers.
It’s all an illusion.
Your garden is your own.
And the demons are just voices.
Trying to find new homes.

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27/08/202215/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: Devil, doubt, godTags: art, demon, doubt, god, life, mood, poem, Poetry, sea, shell, sleep, star, starlight, tired, voices 4 Comments