Is There Any Shadow Darker Than One's Own Soul

She falls into the broken bleakness of herself,
is there any shadow darker than one's own soul?
Dawn's fine whipped promise whispers ugly fluttered cries
in visions stuttering into blue dimensions:
rapidly tattooing fast-paced incongruous
behaviour; reality surfaces and winks.
Sunlight: a memory wrapped in distant colour,
the black, grey, white fantasies of those solemn days.
Tightly curled, the womb stutters a warm place again
that is desired in the delicate stalled sad ways.

Empty existence settles onto the tired brain,
tears soak her skin preparing for the wake's last dance.
All the dead-leaf years gather themselves up calmly,
she pines for sorrow's forbidden golden treasure.
Architectural style reaches for plastic grins,
but is twisted into a bitter parody
of dusted wide decay - love's insane pirouette.
Rhythmical presence coughs, belches soft symmetry,
and she vomits up naked insecurity.
Complexity shrugs casual shades while moving on,
it only takes a moment to destroy her dreams.