What is
depression -
a sharpening of
knives,
an impending
doom not so unfamiliar.
You stop
listening to the drumming
of the earth,
though you
only lay on the ground
night after night
in a soft worship
of the body
after plight -
your mind rages on
but your body is quiet.
Your friends move on
your sister moves on
your father moves on
everything you ever loved
moves on
without you.
You study stillness,
and illness
and wellness
and hold them
at the tips of your fingers.
You know
where to be
and why to be
and when to be
but it’s the how
that becomes
disillusionment
disappointment,
a siren,
a blade,
a way
to say goodbye.
But
if you hold on
to moments
on the train,
in the kindness
of strangers,
in the way
the sun always rises
even after the darkest,
most hollow
nights,
maybe,
just maybe,
you could on
to yourself.
About this week.