The Trojan Gift
Gray grow the daffodils in Depression’s field
where thorn bushes thrive
and the sun shines indifferently,
obscured by sadness’ haze.
Sex offers no allure in Depression’s bed
where desire lies as dead as laughter,
and love finds no purchase
where there is only room for pain.
Yet the senses thrive in this wasteland of the soul,
heightened and open to Art’s inspiration.
Is this my compensation
for the darkness that it brings?
July 28, 2015
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