Into December the Sickness hung low,

striking a match with souls in tow.

He grabbed their hands and dragged them along,

grip burning a fire so painfully strong.

Blazing red eyes diminished their will,

slitting young wrists to make the blood spill.

The Sickness begged for a pill or a shot,

a signal of a battle no longer fought.

In a world of no hope, no winners, you see,

He claimed the lives of people too tired to flee.

Wishes once made now died in the fire,

caused by someone known as the pretty little liar.

That being whose essence trapped the weak,

disposed of hearts battling with nothing more than a shriek.

One beat, two, then three, and four,

each joined together behind His closed door.

Thousands held hands shouting out in despair,

no one responding but just the thin air.

Depression's soft fingers wiped away their tears,

raised His glass in one final, solemn cheer.

Stains spattered against a once pearl-white wall,

tired bodies slumped in conclusion -- a fall.