Every night, the vortex of depression,
clouds my memories with dust and blood.
My painful present and the unhealed past,
taunts my inability to cope up.

Shut eyes fall like curtains descending
upon the dreadful drama I play.
Days and nights pass like a wild stream,
yet it feels like stagnant waters.

Before the rays of light race each other
in hopes to caress the surface of Gaia.
My soul rests within me, woken by the melody,
a sweet symphony, the ultimate rhythm.

It drains my heart of that malady,
which can not be healed by pills or by verses.
Truly, in such vernacular, a spectacular
surge of dopamine, no poet or singer could implant.

All the trouble in the world ceases to be,
even Hitler will remorse at this opera of nature.
Who am I to disagree?
The darkness sneaks up, only to be suppressed.

Out of the window, I look and hope to catch one...