Depression-Suicide in a Writer Considering Self-Concept

Like nausea tendrils
of self-persecution
stretch from Carpathian
walls, whispered otherness:
“riven while they are whole,
raven amidst white doves.”

Stacks of notebooks
sit by my desk
with living language
written while dying,
waiting to be sound
while selegiline
wears down skin,
weak against suicide.

Cast out with fleshly thorn,
disease finds me to stretch
on the rack of dreams kept
alive in waking death,
blunt pins of memory
bruising a music box.

Which protagonist
or poltergeist moves
stacks under my feet,
dangling free, silent?