In Depression’s Grip

I wouldn’t say imagination,

instead, a spiral of twisting metal,

cracked concrete well below,

the shavings of slivers and dust where the legs go.

A night sky that looms in sunlight,

clouded thinking,

to the degree of a natural flight,

over here, this time, that afternoon, one year

in my life.

I sometimes want to cry,

cleanse the rings of deceit around my eyes,

then it’ll be okay.

Though that song plays out its course,

like a top 40

I tire of hoping for predictability

shed some light on

what the hell is the matter with me.

A rant,

is an opportunity,

if we can remove ourselves from

commonality.

I remember the time I was told to stop boring people

with sad old cliches.

It worked,

I no longer use cliches.

I wonder about tomorrow

as fatigue melts away my desire to go away.

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