That black, bottomless ocean,
Still craves you in suicidal fashion.
Those fair weather folks,
remain the same fetid, uncooked yolks.
That void of nothingness,
would love to see you again as a mess.
Sleep would cherish making you its slave,
if you dare venture, into its lightless cave.
Those years of undead pantomime,
are best frozen back in time.
This is my second poem for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD. The prompt: Day 6:"Dont (blank) (blank)" poem. Simple meter here, AABBCC... This is what my poems born out of depression would look like, years ago.