And, this is what depression brings me—a writing voice.
Everyone wants someone’s sweets, and not so much,
their tar or burning oils.
I often struggle not to burn myself up,
a match thrown to ignite and not drown,
to tear in a brilliant blaze, the viscous fibers,
apart, no more veil, an escape hole like the one I saw from the ski bus window as a kid, the sun, a white ball,
of flame a pupil in a pink-gray, polluted winter sky—full valley inversion, the smoke,
stacks of steel mill crushing in around clarity, an Oz of purpled-orange, velveted curtains and yet I saw one need only swim through the spotlight at crossed-spout-topper,
to be released from the heavy-hearted laughter,
of the oblivious moon faces all around me,
who stuck their short visions to the gray-green,
seat’s and the spell of one another.
Photo Credit: Petter Rudwall/unsplash
