There once was a lizard from the Indies
Who had a large pair of *******
The boys came to beg
But she made her own egg
And now she has a bunch of clone kiddies

Opiephait, the Calm, fell from the heavens,
              Never one to be assumed with such
                                                    an honour of his name.
Holding in his dying breath, expelling it upon
himself, a sun exploded momentarily  below.
    Dying proud, a funeral pyre of destruction below.

Now there was but two left, ladies of earth & air.
Pedanth, of Eternal Fire, and true to her standing
     she glassed the earth with tears of sorrow.
And ash crept away, but no release was given.
          For the elven warrior, whispered incantations,
Woven with hues of elemental synergy.
Cinders became formless ones, extensions of her will.

That night the earth wailed, for the wrath of the
          last would make there presence felt.
They won the battle, and to this day
     the shard desert is a reminder of what is possible
            when two minds woven in grief can accomplish.

            There resting place is upon the shattered mountain.
Where within frost glass they stand.
                        For when they are needed,
they will scorch the stars,
                                            to help those in desperation.

Beneath infertile fields,
              where the breath seeping
beyond view would suffocate
the life of mans impoverished
                                           wondering.

Curiosity was a misconception
             what was submerged was
not as above. For eggs lay dormant
feeding on the impoverished fumes.
Like lullabies grazing upon it
                                              slumbering.

But local folk were wiser upon the
land, greeting the field from afar.
      For what was legend was fact instead.
When the earth did breath with rumbling
discontent they knew the land was ready
to birth new life from fields of purgatory.

Majestic wings flew from afar,
                 and villagers gazed at
this beauty of imagining, as bones
scatted like seed over a field of infertile
                                           hallucinations.
But where some dreams die, one awakens.

As the earth heaves like a womb being
awoken by birth, so seeps the blood of
the earth, alight in a concussion of vivid
hues of fire and life,
                                 graced by eyes afar.

Flame danced around this new birth,
          as it inhaled the flame, expelling
                a fountain of new born breath.
And the villagers cheered, the new born
looked, but the mother knew that there was
          nothing to fear for this place was safe.

A tradition of old, letting those who dare
wonder, treasure hunters, armies had tried
to collect the bounty of this land,  for with
birth comes riches from deep in the earth.
          But the villagers had the wealth of
seeing this every few hundred years.

But the dragon always paid its debt,
       as wings of frail flight learned the
                    dynamics of wind and wings.
A hand gestured to the well, and falling
a bountiful harvest of gem stones.
like a rainbow finding its place of birth,
so many filled the sky with there descent.

And then as before and times long ago.
       with eyes adjusted to not gaze on the
field, a mother does neatly once again
hide her worth beneath the earth.
          So long from now a new child will
see the happiness of a mother on infertile earth.

It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
It's the stack of laundry you've been meaning to fold,
that has now become an unyielding castle.
And depression is the impenetrable dragon guarding it against entry.

It's a feeling of happiness that drifts in and out of your life,
just long enough for you to think that you're not trapped,
even though your shackles are still tethered to an unbreakable prison.

It's seeing the dust trail gather along your treasures and your things,
knowing it won't physically go away until you do something about it,
but feeling overwhelmed by the sheer idea of sweeping it away.

This is depression.
It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
But it is me.