Depression

A Poem by AR

The cold inviting hand of depression circles around me like a vulture, waiting for its turn to pick at me. Waiting to swallow me whole like a snake.

And there I lay, unable to defend or escape. Unable and unwilling to move. Just there, with nothing more than my thoughts.

Finally, depressions hand swoops down to take me. It strikes with a fierce and unwavering intensity. My thoughts are no longer my own. My mind is gone.