Written in Depression

It is the angels scour me with their singing
thighsoft their winging

When we were comfortable in our hot ocean-going
sure I was unknowing

of the need for continuance, or love. I underrated
you. Now I am grated

lethargy against hope. I turn coward, shirk
the dry-land choices, the day’s work.

In this terrible mood of sitting still, near crying
I see them appearing on wings shining undying

good news bringing sky ringing thighsoft winging skysoft singing

it is the angels scour me with their singing

This is waste of time. The day cudgels
my hard empty head. I am deceived of angels