Waves of depression That have no linkage To the phases of the moon Ebb and surge In a rhythm that confounds The metronome by which I calculate my moods And face the horrors That bedeck my daily life.
Winds of malaise Appear from nowhere On an otherwise Still day And rile the curtains That protect My fragile fabrications From the vicissitudes Of living on.
Claps of thunder Rattle all the windows Where I cower In my futile hopes the rain That they portend Will not become a flood And wash away All the tiny flowers That my hope has planted In the dreary garden of my life. ljm