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.
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