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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman and her depression.

Submitted: August 29, 2009

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Submitted: August 29, 2009




He would know nothing of that,
He would know only the shadow
Of things, the dark cast over
The images of you as you sit
In the light of today’s dull sun.

Depression is a sad thing:
Spreading its black cloth
Over the thoughts and feelings
And wants and lack of things,
Like baby remembered even years
After it fell dead from the womb’s sack.

The wanting never (not even
In the bright sunny blessed days)
Goes away, the need for light
And love and what is lost and loved
And taken without notice or taken
With notice without voice or choice.

He would knownothing of that,
He would only feel the cold arm
As he embraced, sense only
The slipping away like one
Drifting downstream, beginning
To drown without murmur without
Sound like one in a bad dream.

You wake to the emptiness of baby
Lack, to breast unsucked, to arms
Empty and only the memory of baby’s
Echo from another time tearing you apart,
Touching your ears and broken heart.

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