Depression dreams

December 18, 2008
By Mei Constantine, Champaign, IL

How many minutes, seconds do I have left?
Wait- no
I don’t halt like the shouting martyred screams
Tell me to…
I just stream down the coated shadowed halls of singer’s past
And wait-
For what?
The silence to go by
Footsteps heard, coming behind me
I step to the side
Cowering in an alcove door
To where?
I’m not sure, but I listen
They come, those voices go
Sighing relief I open my eyes and count to three
Pleading with unknowns about things I don’t know
Changing the way I step, lightly coming behind with the dagger’s courage bleeding in my grip
A gasp as the blade unsheathes and crashes into my pursuer’s arm
Grasping hands fumbling for my hand
Frantically stumbling backwards
Opening that door
Wandering into the abysmal unknown
No… who were you
Murdered soul?
I don’t know, but I listen
Footsteps no more
I wait- finally resting
My head against some surface
Hard and yet subtle
As if non-existent, just there in my thick imaginings
So tired…
The still clenched dagger drops from my curled fast fingers
And I fall with it
Into where?
A sweat drenched forehead alerts me to someone’s presence
Above me, below me
Who are you? I greet the growing entity
Forming words that are not words,
Leaving my open mouth in quiet quailing whispers
Of a lark’s last cawing breaths…
Attempting to lift my head, I can see light now, a door in front of me, that door
The one I entered not long ago
Or maybe it’s been an eternity since then
I’m not sure, but I watch
As I struggle on this surface
Still stumbling into nothing in my mind
Pushing against this blocking pressure, this presence,
Fighting with me
We win, and the surface breaks
I crash onto the reality royale of bliss
And yet… the presence is gone
It’s just me
Waking up to the sound of early morning’s songs
Larks, and the crows lilting gracefully through the air
Devouring each other and the rotting decay of natures own shadowed halls
Till daggers of bleeding singer’s past come crushing down
Falling into abysmal unknown doors
Murdering the chance of dreaming artistic hope
Of getting out, of being gone.

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This article has 1 comment.

KMS said...
on Jan. 3 2009 at 4:55 am
I think it's pretty good... I can relate to depression.


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