by Renwick Berchild

The walls, they are shrinking,
a box I am in folded up,
heavy and looming
are the forges
making all this dark;

dawn overrun,
the calor dim burning,
unable to hold cold
things soon splinter,
are lost,
will not be returning.

Light objects,
light furniture,
light myself
to regain sight,
try to hollow out
the black rock
squatted in my bedroom.

The ill flumes raking
my cradled shoulders,
pressing wildly
against the full gloom;
this is how night
starts breathing.

This is how sorrow
is planted;
with a depression
in the earth,
and life going in.


2 Comments to “Depression”

  1. Like this poem Depression it goes on in every ones journey.

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