The line is at its end, And I've survived my wounds severe. Now thrust their filmy forms upon my mind. These memories of roads that once we trod Together rush from where they slept, confined. I pray, be still, and make no movement, lest You reawake their surging, maddening tide. But also at the left extreme Are those with food for thought and rhyme.
Depression spawns a heartfelt theme Of death, black skies, and endless time.
Her time has come. The sun that rose This morning, with his burning pride, Who boiled the sea and thumbed his nose At life, the glaring sun has died. This steaming pall of fading light Condensing 'round our rotting feet, Our corpses sinking out of sight In darkening depths of latent heat. For all are gathered underneath A black osmotic canopy Of darkness. And stay from underfoot.