Stories

This is the first poem in a set about self exploration in depression

Stories

The tome is closed, the pages unturned
But the thirst is there, the thoughts still churn.
The book is laid to rest by a heavy hand,
So now the eyes turn towards the land.

A thought, an inch, a falter...
This journey is the altar
That I give my heart to
So I can cease this attempt to woo.

But this offering
Be it for good
May be filled with suffering
So I just don this hood.

A step, a stride, a march...
But its still hard.
My skin, white as starch,
My mind, a museless bard.

My closed eyes are haunted by your smile.
Your face, your smell, your touch...
All there in single file.
Watching, waiting...As I'm marked out and erased.

I don this hood, this cloak,
In hopes I'm unseen.
But still the book rests in my soul,
As heavy as an Oak.