Chasing the brown dragon.

Mine mood is just a bit o' drab.
Hence the need to chase the drag.

An opiate pipe might make one sing!
Increasing levels of dopamine.

A cloud lingers o'er mine head.
and feels morose. Cold and dread.

The sun hides like moths in cocoons
All I see is dark skies and moons.

Hath the soul left mine body so?
And left but space for weeds to grow?

A garden dead,  wilted and soiled.
With tilted flowers cracked gargoyles.

I've dreamt of death not twice but thrice
Each dream more vivid, less and less nice.

Mine corpse lying stiff and cold.
Vultures circling loud and bold.

Maybe one day if all goeth well
I'll depart from this dreary earth and hell.