The Depression Police
by Charles Kesler

What jackass named this pain
and then stubbornly sat
on it
and called the condemners
to compound the anguish,
the interest bearing skeletons
torn by their ears?
Why couldn't the name
have been Lincoln's disease
or Churchill's disorder,
names that refuse to bend
to character warpers and assassins
and morality morbidians?
My depression refuses to
fly off. How can it?
Its wings are broken,
broken by God's Gestapo,
Kremlin's unemployed KGB,
now in service to organized
chaos, pills that side effect
themselves to sleep, a sleep
without satisfaction, a sleep
without mercy.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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