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.