A Pity

When one is down inside oneself and has some hidden gray agendas, when cobwebs of the inner mind do not conceal the rancid secrets, when one's sole horse in one's sole stable is called a Masochista Mare one does perceive clouds of depression which block the sun one craves so deeply. Yes the Deceiver is alive, related to one's distant past it strangles intellect and soul and keeps the drapes closed through the day and does not know the self or others the giant shadow needs its shade. Oh what a life, though not to envy it does not have wide open eyes, downcast is what the soul has ordered to see the pitfalls, lest one falls.