Is it not strange that we who are depressed
Always believe that we are the only one?
As though no other on earth can have guessed
What we have had said and what we have done.
There I sit, myself in a great vast hall,
I always speak of being alone?
I’m down on my hands and knees to crawl,
Bowing to grief perched high on her throne.
There she sits, holding court with me
In my patron-less museum of sad grief and self pity
Like a deep, full and open sea.
If regret could build a single house, mine might build a city.
What would happen if we put all those depressed souls
Complete in their aloneness, seated in a room together
Would despair be sealed and buried in holes?
Then each of us could be alone together forever.
Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved