Depression

 

In a room with a view of nothing,

A clock ticks off its agony.

 

Dust dances in a shaft of light—

The days grind against each other.

 

A toothache of the soul throbs

In the hollow of the afternoon.

 

Its breath—a stale whiff from the crypt.

Its voice—a shovel throwing soil

On a coffin lid at dawn.

 

The fan twirls; a mock slow waltz.

Mirrors grow foggy and distant.

 

A recluse shuns the stained-glass light,

Mumbling prayers for one more gray day.

A locked door—rusty-throated,

Whispers secrets to itself.

 

The unholy waters rise.

Each hour petrifies in its ticking.

The ceilings press down like leaden skies.

 

No chirp of hope from any corner—

Just the heartbeat of lead boots marching.

And the foul ghost of yesterday's soup

Licking its lips in the shadows.