Despair is a flinty word.
It drills through the heartstrings,
Snapping them without thought.
It makes short work of the heart
But stops at the wood of the spirit
So it changes bits
And becomes depression.
It continues to bore through.
Sapping one of strength
And letting lose bits of dismay,
It reaches the foundation of the soul
And can continue no further
So it changes to the diamond tip
It digs through deep pain,
And only death, sweet death,
Will stop it.
It leaves a hate-shaped hole,
Where the acid of apathy
And the bitter ink of injustice
Leak through and corrode.
©2017 Valerie Hathaway