The depression moves in on her
Like a dark fog. It seems to ****
All interest in life and events
From her mind so that she sits
And stares from the window like

One dying slowly over the month.
Outwardly she seems quite fine.
Little quiet perhaps. Not her usual self.
None of her unstoppable laughter and joy.
She hates it when the fog comes.

The curtains drawn in her mind.
The deep depression *******.
There is the same view from the window.
Trees and lawn and the bird table unattended.
Snow had fallen last time. She remembers

The white blanket over everything.
The bird table like a white statue
Standing still unattended. The sky grey
And ****** of all interest. Her lover
Such as he is still wanted his ***.

She performed dully. No passion.
Nothing touched her or reached in
And moved her. Her lover did his thing
And finished. He turned over and snored.
The inner darkness invades each aspect

Of her being. Even her baby’s cry
Doesn’t move or stir her. She hears it
Like one hearing a far away thunder
And possible storm. Even her beloved
Picasso print fails to move her.

Music of Mahler pushes out
From the nearby shore of the CD player
And slides over her like a chilling wave.
There are voices speaking. Someone
She feels walks on her grave.