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
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