Depression

depression comes,

when hope blurs opaque,

and you wake up from your dreams to

an unrelenting ache.

for some depression

becomes their genius, their muse--

until history shows, like with Poe, that

she does nothing but abuse.

still I listen to her

in the morning when the rain descends,

unable to resist her melancholy

song, nor ascend again.

do I take comfort?

knowing that not long after the storm

the earth erupts in fertile majesty,

and beauty is reborn.

perhaps I am mystified

by this world of futile contrasts--

another cycle of joy and pain,

neither of which will last.

1997