I speak of my heart and soul;

Of darkness in its endlessness.

Jerry Langdon, renowned poet and artist, based in Germany, shares his poetry 

From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90’s. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled “Temperate Darkness and “Behind the Twilight Veil”, “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams”. Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.

ABYSS

When I speak of the abyss

I speak of my heart and soul;

Of darkness in its endlessness;

Of my own personal hell

Where I dare not dwell.

A place full of sorrow and pain

That dwells within heart and soul,

That poisons my already fragile brain,

Tainting me with madness

Taunting me with sadness.

When I speak of the abyss

I speak of my heart and soul;

Of emotions filled with darkness

Of the misery deep inside

Where my demons reside.

Emotional demons I call shades,

For they shadow my heart and soul;

Surrounding me with dark barricades.

Hugging me with sadness,

Kissing me with madness.

When I speak of the abyss

I speak of a waging war

Against my impending darkness,

Against my heart and soul;

Where madness takes its toll.

The battle fields are bloody,

Shattered monoliths of endless war

Which forever haunt over me.

Taunting my heart and soul

As the abyss takes its toll.

When I speak of the abyss

I speak of depression,

Of hate, of avarice,

Of doubt, of rage,

Of what brings wastage.

***

BLOOD RED NIGHTINGALE

A song like I have never heard

My heart understood every word

Though not one was ever spoken.

A silent barrier was broken.

Behind that magically musical veil

I spotted a blood red nightingale.

Singing to my bewildered heart

Which was willingly falling apart.

She sang a dark crimson melody

Eerie as it was it touched me.

It spoke my soul’s unsung pain.

That sprung from heart and vein.

***

SHEATHED QUILL

His blade dormant in its scabbard.

Its battle songs unheard.

Quiescent tales of faded crimson.

Deeds he wished to shun.

A cavalcade a bard doth script.

Truths one must encrypt.

A feathers feud.

In battle ensued.

Write age old Hell away.

Yesterday sheathed, there to stay.

Far from his tortured soul.

Nightmares taken their toll.

Sleep ever restless.

Memories so relentless.

Chained and buried deep.

Still, in mind they creep.

Repent flows as tears.

The sorrow of many years.

Dragons to be slain.

Atrocities of pain.

The muted songs of the bard.

Rusting away in their scabbard.

______________________

Received from Angela Kosta Executive Director of MIRIADE Magazine, Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, promoter

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