all the kindly advice
in the world cannot
light the dull eye
nor release gripping
clinical claws of a
dogged depression
no room to remember
old laughter the mind
grown too busy too
pensive the heart too
despondent no room
left for colors of life
what for some is an
effortless journey
becomes an impossible
trek for those bodies
indeed all but dead
save for pieces of pain
pain that lives like a
parasite carnal of
appetite feeding
on tissue and muscle
and bone endless
meals of tomorrows
here is hopelessness
bleak and as black as
the bowels of Sauron
psychiatry empty of
cures suggests coping
by way of blind stupor
what good is a choice
for a chemical limbo
existence of artifice
vanished of essence
erasing the self seems
no real choice at all