Monkey 2

Somewhere far away, in some distant tree
crouches a monkey, waiting patiently.
Black, faceless, hooded, he watches;
when the time is right he’ll come for me.
On his back is a pack labelled VICTIMS,
inside which are several jars:
Inside them a black, foul smelling liquid,
an antidote to soul and to heart.
My name is on one and when his search is done
he’ll tilt my head back and stare;
No warm sip of brandy for me,
No breath of fresh alpine air:
I’ll swallow the blackness, shudder and moan
And slide into catatonic despair.

depressionrhyme

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