Down to the pit, to the wretched rabbit hole.
In the bottom of our minds
Lay demons of all kinds,
Distorting and contorting any light to pass through,
Or words from the heavens, from me or you.
But you and I, for the matter, do not squat down there,
If we do, we recover! We don’t wallow and stare
Into oblivion, lost, desperate and mute,
Like the despair the two felt when they bit into the fruit
Has hardened, and condensed, and dropped in their bowels,
And remains there, feeding off their faint, quiet, still howls.
Tearing so slow,
In our dear little friends that you and I know.
They may tell us, they may signal, they may stumble and fall,
Some thirsting for help, some fighting and tall,
No matter the type, their cries all fluctuate,
In their degrees of paranoia, in their degrees of love and hate,
I don’t know,
I am blind,
I can’t tell how to see,
When these souls are wailing out, or smiling next to me.
Facades can be created,
All the likes,
To conceal with resolved secrecy, those sharp, awful spikes,
That line the escape from the pit ere mentioned,
So they sit through aquatic realities, dark and detentioned,
With watery eyes glazing over their sight,
Baring their teeth, laughing into the night,
To you and to me, and the monstropolous spite.
Being a prisoner to demonic, eternal darkness’s ghoul,
Not the one that protects you in sleep,
Is seditious and cruel
Of the mind in which they keep.
Normalize this crisis.
Or forever be vulnerable to what bleakness entices.
Old ones, young ones alike,
Are possible victims to depression’s ripping, gashing strike.
It’s not fair,
It never is,
When someone takes their own life,
To their family and friends, to their own conscience of the night.
To seize the machine that connects you to the world,
And realize flaws, and have your mind whirled,
Should never be a reason.
There never is a reason.
In the history of the flesh, of the spark, of the light,
To unravel a masterpiece once knitted so tight,
Is a tragedy,
Like laying down a crushing wall, stronger than