I stand
between a man and his shadow,
halfway committed
to the solitude
of repetition.
He finds "life" in
the sodden silence
of the earliest hours of the morning,
before the sun
ignites its rancid flame,
shattering our order
found in darkness.

The man behind the mirror
remains unseen.

Its so easy to f a d e
into the fabric, the symmetry
of the steaming, writhing crowds.
He let the pallor of that heavy sky
put the taste of sorrow
back into his mouth.
I feel the stickiness of grass
beneath summer-slashed soles,
but the child inside him
has died , the viscous sickness
that is age claims another piece
of youth-drugged memory.

Tell me what this means to you:
A sour supplement,
prescription penned in blue.
Don't forget, my friend
depression
must die sometime too.