Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"


dark poetry

The Disease

The Disease

Age of Shadow

My thoughts and prayers are with France, and so goes my writing. In this age of shadows, may we each be light.

There is a darkness in this world.
It would have us believe
That there is nothing we can do
To curb it. Only grieve
Its hold upon our fragile lives,
And wail in helpless fear.
It would have us give up our strives
To hold our safety near.
But we are not made to be quelled
By darkness and by dread,
Our feet were shaped with fire, to
Leave light within our tread.
And as we run, we do not flee,
But charge the dark in rage!
For shadow may think otherwise,
But ours is not its age.

– s. Clark

You Cannot Hurt Me.

You cannot hurt me.
I have been so deeply burned,
that I am flame.
I have drowned so deep in tears,
I am the ocean.
Such a void has swept my soul,
I am the black of space.
I have fallen from the clouds
and shattered all my bones to shards,
and bled out on the sun-bleached stone, |
vacant eyes wide, reflecting
buzzards picking at my bloody pieces.
And I have stood up, and walked on.
I have been cast from heights much greater
and plunged to depths far deeper
than you could ever reach in me.
You cannot hurt me.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Fighting for Light – 1

Light in Darkness

The stars that burn against the void
Are mirrored by the fireflies
That sparkle under twilight trees,
With fields as their expansive skies.
The moon pours down upon the sea
Shimmering milk on chocolate surf,
That makes soft gray of all the sands,
And gentle sloths the searing turf.
Beauty is not confined to day,
For in the dark and dread of night,
We see the common world anew.
Our souls can always find the light.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Contradictions – 1

Living Dead

My mind is dead
Just as my heart is gone
It’s strange that I, so spectral,
Carry on.
A jagged cage of ribs
Curved over hollow shade
Lurching bones making as though
I am of flesh still made
It should be numb,
To wander dead of brain,
Yet still I feel the cracking bones
And pain
Of all the splintered space
Where once there dwelt a heart
I can still feel the weeping wound
Where I was torn apart

– s. Clark

Wandering Hands

Slip not your slither-hands on me
To snake across my skin
Your probing touch may warming be
But strikes me cold within,
Your eyes may call me beautiful
But rake my body raw
And fine words only serve to pull
My soul beneath your maw.
I do not want the drunken breath
That flows between your lips,
Its sweetness only speaks of death
From roaming fingertips
A death of spirit, hid within,
That marks much deeper still
Than spoiled body, black with sin
That revels in the kill.
Your greedy hands tear through my heart
And scar my searing mind
So I would rip myself apart
To free me from your bind.

– s. Clark


Oh traitor breath
That steals into the lungs so,
Unwelcome visitor
Coming too oft to call.

Treacherous heart,
To beat your will upon me,
To knock so constantly,
Pour life into my halls.

Unfaithful legs,
To lift, and pull, and carry,
Taking me on and on
Roads I care not to trod.

Oh hateful mind!
To bring back to my memory
The duties that I owe
To man, and more, to God.

Oh faithless love,
To go, and worse, to leave me.
To hurry on your way,
And not await my time.

All marches on,
And waits not on my pleasure
To live, or die, or linger,
Or leave me so behind.

– s. Clark

Locked Rooms

Found a place inside my head
Dark, and dull, and filled with dread
One that no one else can see
Where the hateful thoughts are fed

Found a place that’s all its own
Cheerful words are overthrown
Where the world comes crashing down,
Emptiness that dwells alone

One empowered spear of night
Was enough to quell the light
Strip the joyful to the bone,
Hide the hopeful out of sight

Found a place inside my head
Cold, and crusted liquid red
One with no escaping door
Where the fragile things lie dead

– s. Clark


There were stormclouds in her laughter
There was salt inside her smile
And she dressed up in disaster,
Though she’d never liked the style
She had bloodstains on her fingers
From the bite marks on her nails
And she wiped them off on pages
So they wouldn’t stain her sails
She had sunlight in her memory,
But the warmth was in her wake,
Going backward was delusion,
Going forward, a mistake
There were those who tried to reach her,
Called her back to seek the shore,
But she knew, without a compass
You cannot outrun the storm
And she could not sail her vessel
With her bleeding hands and heart
So she ripped out all the floorboards
And sank down into the dark.

– s. Clark

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