Hallowed-out cries echo off these unforgiving walls. Blackness invades throughout the cracks- letting the damp air in. It shades out the small, dim lights from above and casts everything into the shadows. Slowly, and steadily, creeping around ankles, wrists, necks. Chaining you to the walls of the room that has become your home.
Pulling at the black chains with no hope of escape. Sinking to the floor- unable to rest. Weary, tired, deprived of any and all sense of freedom. Leaning against the blood-soaked walls- no rest for the wicked they always say. But who decides the wicked, and who decides the purity?
A light, in the midst of the darkness, shines brighter than all the rest. It stands out and glows with a light of pure joy and happiness. Extend cold, blood coked and worn hands towards it- but find the chains still stop you. Tug and pull and tear at the chains- they're invisible to everyone but everything to you.
Alone, feverish and forgotten. The silent moans escaping parched, dry lips. Dry cackles forced from tightened vocal cords-the only source of libation is the salty tears that fall from half closed eyes filled with fear. The only source of release is to accept the darkness- but to do so would break you.
A weak smile full of yellow teeth. Eyes closing completely- something once thought never to happen. A single, final tear falls down and drips of your chin. It lands in the blood, mixing with it. Purity in a single instance in accepting the fate- no rest for the wicked they always say. But who's to say the wicked can't find purity?
This is about depression for anyone who thinks the meaning isn't clear. It's a rough draft and unfinished- but the best and only try I have at prose-poetry. Enjoy~