The Cycle of the Depressed

Recognition is just a game we play
Here in our inventive space
Of elves and shards
That dance to tunes
Of roses and flutes
With melodies
That shine above
All mountain tops
Even as the sun
Pokes fun at us
From a height
That reaches galaxies
And destines
Of shooting stars
From time to time
To activate
The pleasure gene
We humans devour
To an extreme degree
As if life has held
A special place
With roses and fountains
Of endless waters
That fall and touch
The glory streets
Of our home
Away from home
Just as if it was
Meant to be
Far more
Than what we
Intended it to be
Like a child
Wobbling down the street
With no pedigree
Searching for answers
To feel at ease
As if senseless remedies
Weren’t some sort of
Satisfactory lesions
Of colorful bliss
Intended to breathe
In the fresh air
That accumulates
Whenever the worst is seen
As dust carries on
And sits on by
From the scraps of our skin
To the mix of oxygen
Like a dancing volcano
Enjoying its movements
That burn and bleed
To the point of endless degrees
As if the pain were mere coincidence
Eluding thee
To a new dimension
Capable of denying all truths
Inside a tomb
Caved in to make one fit
And behave mannerly
And tenderly
In such a way
To rectify all that was lost
And all that can be
From the art of disgrace
And art of the grace
Of the one who was told
Not to believe
How the world chooses
And speaks
Who lives and who dies
From one from the street
With little to no regret
Living a life
Guilt-free
As dull as it gets
Or as sweet as a fruit candy
Ready to be eaten
And enjoyed by thee
And all who have captivated
Every moment
As if it were their last
From the moment
One came to be
To the spring of one’s energy
As if pigments
Of one’s imagination
Contorted into dimensions
Of darkness and light
In spite of the truth
That shrivels and spooks
All who care defiantly
With arms full and wide
Dropping to the sea
As daisies grow and learn
The chaotic melodies
Of tortured beauties
From the land
Of wonderful
Yet hateful disparities
Brought together
By a fleet
Of tattooed histories.


©strivebright.com

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