There were times,
Even in the darkest caves of my depression,
That I was most at rest,
Most sedate,
Most in tranquillity,
Almost cocooned,
Within an ice bath of sterile numbness,

Once the tears have dried,
And the throat is already sore,
Then comes the numbness,
Calming yet terrible,
Sat on that lonesome bench,
With only my tired thoughts,
And the grey carpets of leaves,

But in truth,
The solitude is addictive,
The silence is the finest symphony,
A melody of soothing needles,
A drug my weary mind savours,
It’s dangerous in all honesty,
You almost don’t want to get better.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    Brilliant! ❤ ❤

  2. shauna says:

    Quite an evocative description of one of the many phases of depression. I echo Carol Anne’s sentiment above: brilliant indeed!

  3. sereichert says:

    I feel this… thank you

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