Depression is a flat and empty road,
Gray bitumen against a dull gray sky,
No pit stops to unload a heavy load,
No off-ramps and no stop signs by and by,
A shadow etched upon its lifeless face
From clouds that blot affection from the sun,
Loping alone through endless open space,
Unpurposed hitherto when it begun —

It stretches like a finger pointing forth
To where the earth and heaven press their lips,
A mocking jest to whom may seek its end,
And on its back we mortals weave and wend,
A conga-line of self-absorbent trips
We weigh as gold, yet tally not their worth.