Poem: Dancing With Swords


Dancing with Swords

A thief.
A robber.
A liar, slick and well dressed.
The teller of untruths.
An abuser of souls.
A beserker
in the brain, wreaking havoc.
A dead thing, who will not rest
until you too,
are dead.

There is no good in it.
No truth.
Only madness and loathing,
both of which are too,

Nothing can be believed,
especially not your feelings.
You must be cold.
Determined, a creature of principle
and faith and most of all,
enforced discipline,

always ready
to fight the daily battle.
You cannot surrender once
or it eats you alive.

So dance this night,
your battle won for another day,
but do not lay down your sword,

for a wounded liar
is the most dangerous.

About this poem. 

All true, in my experience. Depression is a war. Winnable, but only day to day. I dance often. But I never lay down my weapons of self-preservation.



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