The grip of depression is at all
times lingering ; it lives in a
high dark corner of the mind;
bundling despair and hopelessness.
Its victims sit and wait, mind
wandering, in this place with no
windows . Does depression find the
moaning of God’s lost flock real,
their distant cries resonates within
the living lost; do not ask depression
to stay, sit in silence until it decides
to goes away.
Depression works hard keeping
madness in control when the sun
goes down, like a shepherd it does
not rest! In the night, the moaning
of Gods flock becomes louder; as
the lost flock feels its limbs take
root in a barren land. It does not
rain on them and they cannot
grow; looking like bent grass where
they lay, Freedom is not theirs.
Who, tired of knocking at the
Golden door, they leave friends
and family behind. Most are
doomed; it takes heaven-sent
moments to be pulled from the
murk and mire of hopelessness.
Depression shouts at the lights
of goodness; it is cloaked in grey
and will drown those who listen
in its dark and dingy place. In the
grip of depression, the mind
wanders, sits behind shadowed
glass and refuses to retreat.
Depression is like leaning backward
in a meditative dream, it has no
eyes to see the moonlit stream. It
dances in a dark field that yields
no fruit, it is frail-leafed, and it has
not a word of good to speak. While
back in the barren land black-winged
swallows, haunt the mind, scarlet
patches shreds of gray, waiting for
the spark from heaven to fall. Yet,
depression continues in its dream,
while waiting for the marker to be
placed on the unknown grave.
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