Under the blanket of anhedonia.
False warmth, blurry dysphoria.
No saline left with which to clean their hands.
Ever righteous mine sons of man.
Fallen slowly one by one.
Never thinking, slowly sinking.
Drowning, silent, lungs are filling.
Embraced by blinding light, a worsening feeling.
Preference to see none, clarity forced upon all..
Tattered, faded, this old shawl.
Closing contact with a chapter.