Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric
stained by stagnant-self
arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.
It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
like an alligator in death-roll.
If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
- again.
The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
past despair.
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