The Death of Joy

Psych ward poetry

Every day a lightless sun

Every night the moon is new

No light creeps in

Through the glass

Eyes sewn shut

One has not even

The glimmer of a memory

That is not black as pitch

The complete decay of light

Is not naught but maggots

Crawling over the bloated carcass

Once believed to have been called

Happiness

Yet now blotted

From existence