The Depressed
deaf, dumb, and blind we are,
callous spirits blankly staring afar
that know not why.
from time's merciless past scarred deep
by memory's painful edge,
a keen sickle honed to reap
we cannot gaze heavenward in pleasentry
to the glorious firmament of dawn's sky
and know not why.
Sightless, like Oedipus,
wounds inflicted upon the soul
no love - no laugh - no hope - unwhole.
no youthful laughter free, just Judas fools void blatant happiness
or the jester's ignorant revelry.
deceiving truth and profane holiness
are but the righteous rogue's retreat
sugar-coating the unknown.
for the terminal placebo. for the starving dog a meatless bone
masquerading the dive
into warm Death's deep dark sea.
yet still the longing hearts' seek
empty joy or brief glee
filled heavily, weighing dismally in our useless existences
as dryly we cry - and cry - and cry
but know not why
to even continue in our struggling persistence
futile. seeking harmony in this warring resistance
of unyielding conflict, hypocrite's lies, and impending death
in failing faith until the last goodbye
of our fading life's final, choked breath.
here, catatonic we sit in spoiled view
of this thieving theatre's broken dreams,
a poison panoramic vision of entropy forever played
upon this weakening world's shadow screen.
striving on in the battered somnambulism
of silent screams - and screams - and screams.
insightful insomniacs
that know not why.
for we are born with a helpless cry
into a world that knows not shame
and we die a lonely sigh
when the pistol goes bang,
because we know not why.
