Depression:
That unasked monologue meandering amidst my mente,
Suspended silently over a well,
Sprawled across the floor,
Analyzing, critiquing inner corners-
The crevices of my thoughts.
There’s a knife above,
Its blade delicately reflecting light, shimmering colors abstractly reflected.
But I resonate with the handle:
Dull, sturdy, a perfunctory chunk,
Automatic holder of light buried inside a
Weapon.
Am I my own worst enemy, is my brain wired against me?
This one item, encased
In cerebral fluid, at the crux of my musings:
I claw out of the well, clinging to that dim distant promise of reflective
Light.
Femme Noir 