It is a familiar phantom,
Folding its velveteen wings around me
In a cuddle comforting and claustrophobic.
It is a surging storm,
Dark and distantly rumbling
As the clouds creep ever closer in my mind.
It is a crepuscular chasm,
Where icy cold obsidian depths
Scream back the echoes of the pain in my heart.
It is a fearsome flood,
Battling to keep my head above ink black waves
As the undertow drags me into the fathoms.
It is a discordant ditty,
A clashing cacophony of sharps and flats
That brings my brain to the brink of insanity.
It is a petrifying precipice,
Perched atop a towering cliff face
As whipping, whistling winds urge me to plunge.
It is a hardened hunter,
An insatiable and sinister stalker
Relentlessly pursuing me with nowhere to escape.
It is a concealed cavity,
The jagged hole of isolation and loneliness
Where none may enter but I.
It is a formidable foe,
Without a physical form to fight.
It is all-consuming, and now,
It has returned.
Emma H, 25/11/2016, aged 25