What of the young Donna
Reclining with book in hand
A sigh circling her lips
A glaze greeting her gaze
Her thoughts bored of days
Endless days
Depthless days
Where every voice and all actions
Are slowly stewed
In rich stock of routine
And people arrive, bowls in hand
Forming long, bending lines
Like the Depressions of old
Where defeat, distrust, damage
Linger and lay
Within the sleepless eyes of many

On a day such as this,
I return from my tiring work.
On a day such as this,
I return to this dull world.

I hear it once more--
The droning, and the grayness it explores.

I feel it coming--
The humming, and the slight drumming...

The thinning beats are composed of children's pitter-patter,
And sullen ***** dish clatter.
The tuneless melody speaks of pointless meanings,
And empty greetings.

I hear it once more--
The droning, and the grayness it explores.

I feel it coming--
The humming, and the slight drumming...

I hear it one more time--
Or so I think,
For the part of me that understands
Has already died.

A bag of melancholy emotions collect
within empty features, secluded & vacant.
No tears ever weaken this collection
                            of barren reflections.
Only whispers escape, soundless gestures.


It collects from distressed abrasions,
                 to smear upon its outer visage.
Always motionless it wonders the
surroundings to celebrate the humour
                     of its desolate existence.

A child wonders closely, asking if
    this creation of lost collections is in
need of chloroform smiles.
                 it looks and hands a rose,
its leafs embers of its mourning.

Smiling, this miniature silhouette,
slashes out at the one who parented it.
              Cleaving what was smiles,
now carved features smear a face of
sullen smiles, as like the petals falling lifeless.

Tears flow like rivers, the contortion of
happiness fades when the last petal erodes
       a motion under hidden gestures facilitate  
this happiness to see such butchery of innocence.
But it is short lived like always, paper frowns collect.

Whether it’s 5 p.m or 5 a.m, I laugh as loud as I want.
Laughter is a stream of gold cascading through the air.
It is the end all, the ultimate painkiller.
The path to redemption.
Laughter.
Well, it is 5 a.m, but I’m not laughing.
I’ve been reading stories
Of sadness and sordidity,
romance and restlessness,
love and loneliness–all for hours on end.
So much for lightheartedness, there’s none of that here.
I’ve been reading amateur-made stories
That still tug at the deepest recesses of my depression.
One in particular inspired me to write a certain story of my own.
It was sad, it was juvenile,
It was beautiful, it was nostalgic.
The prose in that story should only ever be thought of
In the most proper manner:
shrouded in a hazy mist of wistfulness and bittersweet longing.
Different hues of glowing colors,
Images of fog.
For so long I thought I was through with this part of my life.
The part where I felt so lonely that I could drop dead of touch deprivation.
But it has returned.
Nothing will do to stop this acquired disease.
Mine is a loneliness, such as a thirst
That cannot be quenched with mere drops of water.
It becomes a way of life.
O’ joy, where do you reside?
Oh, forget it. You’re lost on me.

The breath of change collects on all,
once plumes of growth wither beneath
the slicing silence of onyx nights.
Collecting grains of light from the day..

A flurry of hues depart there podium,
like a crescent of static moments descend
down to there inevitable serenity..
When breath collects they are fleeting momentarily.

Exhalation collects on the shivers of bare branches.
Unclothed of there foliage, they are but shadows
of life's abundance. Now they stand sullen waiting
patiently for the winds of change to once again blow.

Tell me once. Tell me again, I wasn't listening.
Move your mouth. Speak again,
I wasn't watching or listening.
Typically when tongues lash, mine is still.
Typically on a night out, it's better to stare.
Whispered our shouted,
who cares? Who cares?