Depression craves further depression.
Satisfaction would be its end,
It brings about only constant recession,
'Till one goes over the bend
A beast of sorts which cannot be tamed,
It strolls through the paths,
Until at last, we will be maimed
And left shall be naught but ghasts
Thoughts without colour mark its path,
Each an unhappy ending on its own,
Never shall we truly escape their wrath,
Lest we venture outside remedies known,
Again and again, the idea manifests
Itself in possibilities uncountable,
And finally, it begins to rest
Becoming infinite, insurmountable
The last step to take seems plain,
‘Tis only a thread of life away,
We will become our own bane,
To finally escape the endless grey
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