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:
An anvil
On which blood's rhythm
Is hammered

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
Being. . .

--Mr. Gobley


Flying Cat said...

It's been a while since I've visited. As usual the subject and timing are right in sync with my own inner feelings.

Thank you for sharing.

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