Depression, akin to a common fly,
emits a dull buzzing that protrudes the skull.
Still it does so with, in it own way,
to decompose that which was once living beneath the flesh.
A buzzing, a tearing, a gnawing into skin
A maggot? An egg? A thought in my head?
Once you lay down to accept the dead. They hatch, slither, encroach, leaving you like lead.
For why else would a fly bore into unneeding flesh and retake whats left in the bones.
Nearly hollow enough now.
Gouged , consumed, recreated.
Soon to fly, to be one of them.
Maybe that is the answer to the end.
Where we are and where we've once been.
We'll become the maggots festering within the bones of a friend.
We, as well as depression, a fly on the wall, soon to lead our friends to the decaying fall