Depression is a sniper hiding in the forest of life.
Without warning, without provocation, it fires its steely bullet through your heart
rendering you mute, in pain, and wondering what happened
as your self-control, your grip on what’s real, falls to the ground
like so much slaughterhouse offal.
It takes everything to pick yourself up,
when you can feel the psychic blood draining from
what once held joy, faith, and hope.
Crawling for cover,
tears of empty rage sliding down torn and ragged cheeks,
each movement an obstacle in and of itself,
you finally hear the shot that felled you.
And even as you manage to find shelter,
you are felled once more.
There is no rescue party on its way.
No medic to stem and staunch the wound.
“Hope” does not make house calls for the dying.
Even after the sniper has left the trees,
its silver rounds of hurt deeply embedded in your flesh,
the fear of never finding the light again
can be worse than the fiery, breath crushing pain.
Friends drag your conscious gibbering body.
They apply the only aid they know how,
clean the wound,
cover the hole.
But only you can mend it,
scar over the damage,
and move on.
It is only the memory of hope,
that can make that happen.
Pills, words, hugs, music…
all are temporary solutions to
a chronic illness that is only
solved in the final cessation of life.
But I’m not ready yet.
The pain will pass.
The futility of life will once again
be lost to the wind like a grain of sand.
And the inner light will glow once more.