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