Frustration's waiting glumly by my bed

in hopes that something cracked within my head;

we both know that he's waiting for no end

since what has fall'n is nothing full of hate,

and poor Denial, happy to resend

the feeble intuitions of true fate

is wan as Fate swells to a febrile might.

Poor Anger, but Frustration's minion, cries;

Depression, faceless still throughout this night

but watches as emotion searches, tries

to break the thread of Reason on this heart.

To speak such archetypes pulls back a screen,

but never has this been so full a part

that Emptiness was conquered by the scene.

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