The Depression Dish

It has been one..two..three..four..five

A decade of survival

A public facade hiding the despair

Six months of struggle

Six months of rejection

An ounce of words

Replace what once was abundance

A gallon of tears

Sixty nights of fears

Nine gazillion “It’s all in your mind” hoots

Negligible pinch of hope

Oozing In drops despite the cries to gush

Scratches of gore

First on the paper with a pen

Next on the skin with mine own blood

The words struggles, the blood dries

The funeral pyre of hope witnesses my cries

Withered. Broken. Crest fallen.

No glimmer of sunshine. I sit sullen.

The last act sees the chair go down

The noose tightens, reserving the grave beside hope

The Depression Dish is now ready to serve.

Please don’t forget to garnish it with my mother’s tears.

– Harihara Subramanian Jayaraman

(Image courtesy: Google Images)

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