Mr. Hyde

Restless sits my soul
While hours wile away
Awaiting the familiar ghoul
That taunts me by the day
He wears my face and pries
The black recesses of my heart
Despite my fearful cries
He laughs, “It’s just the start.”
Out he drags the shame
The frustration and the anger
The kindness I’d sometimes maim
The banishment of languor
For thoughts, stormy and dark
That hellish burning power
And so he cries, “Hark!”
And rips such seeds ere they flower
For he who is heartless, is the surgeon of myself
Peering long into the abyss, considerate of good health.


Author: redgladiola

Creative writer happily predisposed to flights of fancy. You can find my poetry and short prose at

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