Depression

For years, his inner craving, Had been punctuated with excuse, And resentment, Had become a full time resident In his thoughts; Years had given him to grope Like an ill-favored recluse, left to flounder through life With thoughts pondering one thing; The years he thought were his Had long been purloined, By inattention and neglect; His good years, now so distant, His only sighting was through a haze. Any despondent feelings for self He knew altered naught, For yesterday's are unforgiving, And time, has no friends.