This Mourning depression

This Mourning depression

The perceived absence of life

Another gray day in purgatory

I know it is far from the hell most live in

I step into the role of torturer

So quickly, gracefully even

I raise the flail and strike harshly in offering to this pain It seems god has given me to awake from.

“You are alone, no-one loves you, you will die here, alone, by my hand miserable”

As I gasp and sob my first morning breaths, wondering whether to call for help

I despair to ever be free from this silly, contrived prison of depression, antique pain and

Antiquated fantasies of suicide that are a habitual response to solitude.

As I cry my anger of being alone, I attempt to lower the nexus of the sobs

Deepen the pitch of my own pain to something appropriate to a man almost 50

Yet as I stop resisting my feelings, they shift and the sodden gray day

Lightens to tarnished silver that I might, somehow polish.

WCW

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