Manic is the Dark Night

by Michael Lee Johnson

Deep into the forest

the trees have turned

black, and the sun

has disappeared in

the distance beneath

the earth line, leaving

the sky a palette of grays

sheltering the pine trees

with pitch-tar shadows.

It is here in this black

and sky gray the mind

turns psycho

tosses norms and pathos

into a ground cellar of hell,

tosses words out through the teeth.

“Don’t smile or act funny,

try to be cute with me;

how can I help you today

out of your depression?”

I fell jubilant, I feel over the moon

with euphoric gaiety.

Damn I just feel happy!

Back into the wood of somberness

back into the twigs,

sedated the psychiatrist

Scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:

“mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe

lithium, do I need to call the police?”

No sir, back into the dark woods I go.

Controlled, to get my meds.

Twist and rearrange my smile,

crooked, to fit the immediate need.

Deep in my forest

the trees have turned black again.

To satisfy the conveyer.

The Lord of the dark wood.