September 10: Suicide

 

Depression

 

The leaden swells that press upon my eyes

have come alive; they fester and distend,

befoul, blaspheme, as if to tantalize

the demons as they seek to comprehend

the blight returning to imperil me.

Enshrouded by a cloudy mantle, bland

and colorless, I rise a scant degree,

then falter, forcing boulders through the sand.

 

Sublime the pleasantries that went before,

the mirthful dawn, a thrush, a piney breeze,

a lover's touch, the heartening rapport

with faithful friends. So welcoming were these.

 

All absent now. Instead uncertainty,

and moments passing to obscurity.