Still

Hit and Run

By R.C. TaylorPublished 2 years ago • 1 min read

Depression is like a bird of death spreading its wings

Over your town, a town that you never truly owned

And you’re only just now finding that out.

The once abundant fish have died.

There is no grain.

Even the sky has abandoned you,

The sun gone to sleep or at least

Just lies in bed and refuses to rise

and the moon long ago left to get cigarettes,

Relieved you’re in the rearview mirror.

So you just lie there too, unmoving,

Trying to hold your pieces together

Under a broken sky after being run over.

I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.

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