The Living Broken (Poetry)

Misery

Your misery lies at your front door.
He waits for you to stumble and fall.

A grin he wears across his face.
When you greet him each day you wake.

He aims at you and waits for you.
He hides in the bushes just waiting for you.

The dark black eyes he casts upon you.
Make you shudder with grief and sorrow.

He sits in your room at night.
He watches you cry yourself to sleep.

He wets your sleepless eyes.
Only to hold the spit of your sorrows and pain.

He hovers over you like a thick grey cloud.
Your frown drowns his rain and makes him nothing but proud.

Your every move does not go to vain.
For his senses are your stairwell to pain.

Misery is the name; and you are its vacant.
Misery is his name; and you are the game.