semitam desperatio

Metaphorical piece on depression. Some latin words. (I'll be honest, I used google translate)

it’s an empty hole.

i walk, twisting in the dark

turning, trying to find a pinpoint of light,

a spark of hope, a star of glee

but there is none;

not in this blackness i tread.

my feet skid and fall into holes -

my naked form, stripped of my comfort and warmth, quivers

and thick, pointed thorns scratch along

my ankles, my thighs, my breasts.

there are potholes littered throughout the frozen, rocky path of

loss, sorrow, despair;

i crumple to my knees

the weight of the blackness pressing on my shoulders

and tugging at my legs

running along my sides and whispering heady, revolting things inside my head.

i am shaking from the cold;

but when my foot descends into a strong current of water beside me

flumen doloris

it is hot and fast and burning and scarring.

my delicate skin, numb and prickling from the cold

peels off, revealing bloody flesh; blackened, not red.

nay, the crimson blossoms not here but on the paths of amare and odisse

that which are intertwined with each other, liken to lovers that tread not carefully

but frivolous.

there is only black here.

and black shall be what consumes thee

as they walk upon this path.

the further i walk, the closer i am to lux.

i press on; the forest gets thicker and thicker,

the silence ringing

and what plants there were die.

it is days before i see color;

i starve, fighting off hunger, insanity, and deadness -

i resist when branches twist to pull me in,

my weak body doing little

my hope creating light to force them off -

it is the only relief from darkness I have,

however thin and wavering it is.

i lost time long ago

when first shoved on this path

and i could not tell you how long it took me to see the end

but at last, there was color

a beam, shimmering in the blackness

dark and weak, but there.

a purpleness had begun to glow, sending strength through my fragile body.

the stronger it gets the more strength returns to me and i run, sprinting,

faster and faster.

roses, petals soft and dewy, pastel

bloom, fighting off darkness with their watery luminescence -

lighting a path, easy to see, thorns receding and giving me room.

the river slows to a gentle lap, the road smooths into grass, and noise appears -

whistling, buzzing, rustling, beautiful to my neglected ears.

my wounds, deep and scarred and blackened, first turn red, then heal - disappear from my body, leaving white, stretched marks, marking my growth.

the path ends in a meadow, where i stand alone.

i wait.

i have yet to speak, for who is there to speak in this beautiful, desolate place?

there is no one;

but soon, she comes out, stumbling and ungraceful, from my path, and she asks me

"who are you?"

and i tell her not my name, but my soul.