Happy souls, Vibrant of colour
are being watched
the watcher
ox-eyed,
a thief;
waiting.
waiting to take the ‘happy’ away
and leave them just souls;
empty souls,
waiting.
sitting so satisfied
and sadistically snickering
until he strikes
relishing
in our flight from his sight
but we, in futility
impossible
to escape his snare
whimsically waves his magic wand of gloom
and our colours are gone in a snap
reduced to a boring world
where everything tastes like
unsalted soggy mashed potatoes
and listening to your favourite song
sounds like distant white noise
and your favourite TV show seems blurry
smiles are upside down
and the sun declines to come and play
just to cry behind the clouds all day.
so then despair is our national anthem
we sing it proudly
(or maybe not)
and to the conclusion that
we call this magician ‘Depression’.
and he basks in his glory
of his
mediocre
mayhem-causing
magic tricks.