Depression

Pinned by the acumancy of the night
On the flat plains of doleful grey
That spread like mildrewed counterpanes
And only rise where corpses lie
I find no answer in the sky.

Awful and blank as plastered wall
That empty void’s a fish’s eye
A calendar whose letter days
Have boiled away to faded smears
I find no answer in the years.

I had a heart that once could feel
That now sits black within my chest
And sinking still, lies constipate
A stinking ill, I contemplate
I find no answer in this jest.

Others I know have felt the same
There’s no true novelty in pain.
I can not even forge from doubt
A statement of what life’s about
Be it theistic or totemic, I find no answer in polemic.

But poetry (or doggerel, say)
At least contrives to pass the day.
Until some part of me just breaks
And past the point of all repair
I’ll have no answers to declare.



'well if you can't laugh at despair, what *can* you laugh at!'

Simon BJ