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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