Depression

Depression Once so bubbly and cheerful how purposeless now seems the life, Fingers fail on the holes of flute air no more blows in rhyme; Even if hundreds of Suns combine can’t get me a little sunshine, Thousands of stars twinkle heart sees only white of moonlight; Sitting within forewalls of closed room I await something bright however minuscule, In that darkness of biting cold anticipate some soothes of warmth; Like a weightless tender feather for days that could remain afloat in air; I too seem to be hanging onto this life although no reason to such a strife; Soothing breeze doesn’t embrace soft whispers unheard, Colourful paints cease to charm flowers as if have no essence; Unlike an old volcano having used up all the brimstone, I don’t even boil or simmer despite all the fire underneath. Written August 5, 2020 © Dr Upma A. Sharma