They tell me you’re a depressive,
Spend most mornings in tears,
Sending visitors away.
I sit in a darkened room and succumb
To your trilogy of torment.
You’re all about flaccid flesh,
Warped thoughts, a veritable cradle
A child falls from an open window,
Smacks on the ground.
To follow you is to empty my mind
On the bloody floor, and cry for a
Woman to take me away.
Words by Winifred Bowen, Art by Clare Moran
This article first appeared in print volume 88 edition 3 SOAP