Depressive States

I tread such outlines, heavier than most—this month of treasons; while captured in parts, the sting of freedoms, as casual as, We cannot see! Hills are sliding, where mud stiffens, and ankle-high this life; to embed a motif, lurching at exits, as to enter another segment: this slow pace; this chase of hallways; that thing we dread to say. Arts appear morbid, while mothers persevere—through desert lows: Metaphors grow wings, clipped by verification—this intimate travesty; so young to perish, gripped by resilience—to face social contempt! It appears human, this flow through shivers, while searching for pillows: that psalm awareness; that tint of disdain; that inner mechanism—as to drive one further, that land of willows, while to stand upon mirrors. I knew to pull—this furious crane, if but a second to breathe; as every word for struggle, portioned through lights—this need to confess to strength: The Battle of Thorns; The Woes of Grain; That Struggle for Passion;—if only by chance, this ache to achieve, as to manifest a perfect feeling: they come with time, as soon to dissipate, while one tugs at a volcano.

The days are lowly, fleeing through fiction—this fantasy chasing wings; while born this morning, washed in waters, a child seven years of age; to confirm such madness, a priest as a father, to wet his scalp at four. We fret and flit, that close to tragedy, mourning mother’s birthdays; while searing self, this season of trespass, a bit too torn for tithes. I must confess it;—this gray awareness, the likes of testimony: to have that feeling; but lost for words; while to picture something uneven; where graves are walking, inflicting death—this casual blessing; as not for mortals, but closer than waves—the warmth of bosoms: to sculpt a dream; this utopic island; as boring as repetition: to see us flee; if only to feel; where charms are required. The nights are vocal, while drenched in silence—this thing for knowing persons; to arrive with grace, this face of ghosts—this unshaven stubble. I remember mother, as pure affliction, while searching for highs; to witness this life, as fraught with mayhem—this struggle for more; where nothing changes, including behavior, as to render a similar outcome; while not to know, of this color purple—those tears in Father’s basin. I crawled to walk, as to trek to run, while to finally leap into troubles: such misguided anger: the days of his woes: as found too independent.

I stumbled through mindcaves, alert to beauty, but too enthralled to listen: those currents of love, while so naïve, forced to carry wounds; this life for living, accustomed to humans, as to ignore the warmest touch; this thing about grays, or more intuition, as embraced by personalities. I’m charmed to believe—if it was never for glory—it may never be for glory. I’m jaded this way, while to wonder of change—the boundaries of its pressure: that aching dream, staring at shadows, while exercised in darkness: a fist full of lies; that very foundation; while seeking a kingdom. I’ve driven this car, awakened to travesty, whereto, mourning actions. It’s a sunny sorrow, this bracket of contrition, as we have our months: this mention of memories; that ingrained chasm; this time for blank reflection—as portrait images, screeching through paint, a sign for passionate symbols; to culture chaos, filled with torment, accustomed to measures.