A cry in distress

What demonic fancy does yet enslave
To not breathe, thus made impossible.
To be puppet like, drawn by strings.
A lifeless being, serving an invisible purpose
Never letting go, the grasp. It clings
Always a pray on the mind

To become emotionless. To do things previously enjoyed
As a chore.
It saps the energy, leaving one gasping
Always the mind thinks one thought
All others make no sense

One goes about the tasks not looking
To do as a duty. Something not to be liked
The blessed reprieve when it is at last done
Yet a gnawing sense of loss
Hurrying on to a new task as one obsessed
Its claws deeply embedded into the conscious
Making a fool to think anything else.
It’s a distraction. This demonic fancy
To slay it a final hope.
To be free again.
To shed this unseemly weight of doubt
That creeps in making itself manifest

The question always. Why. When will it all end?
It does not. Like the waves, it ebbs and wanes
A vengeance now displaying. Leave me. This I pray.
Yet words seem fanciful little.