Words cannot echo mood,
It’s impossible to convey
The tingling numbnesses
Of the grief I felt today;

The semi-detached daze
Of continuing depression;
The tight closing-in of the dark,
That stark foreshadowing of art..

The fear that accompanies
All that  I do,
Meanders like an ox-bow lake,
Can take years to breach the gate
To the dangerous flood-tide of suicide..

Depression gathers to a greatness
Like an ooze of oil beneath the skim of soil
All the threads of all uncompleted hesitations,
Decisions, revisions, passing consolations,
Always leave me in this bloody mess
Of sense impressions.

Each contradictory set
Of firings in the brain
Sets me on this rocky road,
Again.