Black Dogging
In memory of Thomas Fergus who couldn't wrestle with the black dog anymore November 2018
It’s the blackest of black dogs,
That steals your will and runs with it,
Like a stick in its mouth,
Not towards but away.
Away.
“Fetch,” you call with feeble voice.
But your hearts not in it.
Your heart lies broken in pieces.
Ripped in shreds.
Tattered.
And the blackest of black dogs does not fetch.
It rends with sharp, destructive teeth, that bit of you which may stand a chance of fighting the final decision.
To
Lay
Down
And
Die.
Your fixed, disordered, thought convinces you that everyone who loves you, who cares, who will grieve and cry and scream in pain,
Why?
Will be better off without you in the long run and over rules even survival instinct, to convince you.
To
Lay
Down
And
Die.
There’s no happy ending.
The black dog is fickle and will chase and steal the will of any other likely candidate once your life is spent and wasted.
Too soon.
Too early.
You didn’t need to die today.
You didn’t need to die that way.
You leave us broken hearted.
And shying away from the terrifying barks,
Of the black dog.
