Depression

Dimness descends like a curtain.

Murk buries me, plugs my nostrils,

seals my ears; I hear nothing,

not even my own thoughts.

I wallow in my private pig-sty.

I want to move, but my muscles

have turned to water; every step feels like 

wading in molasses. 

My brain has turned into peas-porridge-in-the-pot

nine days old. I would scream,

but nothing comes out of my mouth. 

I sweat, but I’m cold. 

I ride a slimy waterslide

down and down and down,

and still further down,

until it dumps me in a cesspool.

The waters close over my head.

I breathe the shit of lost souls. 

No, I am shit. I am the feces 

of failure, a stinking pile of self-loathing.

Bomb-battered walls tower over me,

Totter, tilt, tip, 

crash down upon me.

Once I marched proud and tall into tomorrow.

Now I cower in corners

hoping not to piss myself.

Once I had dreams of greatness.

Once I built a railroad…

Buddy, can you spare a cup of hemlock? 

Written December 2018