In praise of my depression

Every now and then
The gray eagle
Lands on my shoulder.

The talons
A dull ache
A shadow

A weight
That presses
And does not relent

The world:
Merely
An anvil
On which blood's rhythm
Is hammered
Ceaselessly
Out.

The Sun:
The dreaded cataract
Of conscience.

The sky:
A sharp-edged sheet
Of flattened brass
That does not forgive.

Only night
Offers dimension and color;
Only the dark has depth
And holds out a shard
Of cold compassion.

i slide
Down the soul's sine curve
And praise the purgatory
Of my shame.
i think:

"Oh, to be truly alone:
To be without
A Self."

After which
A spark of self-loathing
Ignites the smoldering,
Clears the thistled ground
For new growth:

A small bud
Opens its petals
Toward
All
Being. . .

--Mr. Gobley