fruitful and futile

the worst part
of deep depression
is the images it compels
every smile
every moment
every memory
is so clear
it cuts with razor edges
fruitful and futile
in the same
jagged instant
forcing the blood
to mix with the ink
as the quill carves
through the page
to slice directly
into the fragmentary soul
of the fool
that hopes to stay
in the saddle
for the full eight seconds
before being bucked
into the eternally
swirling smoke
of never after
the sublime
land of nursery rhyme
where reality
never met a bad deal
it didn’t leap at
the dice are loaded
yet they line up
to throw away
whatever value
they once had

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