Words cannot echo mood,

It's impossible to convey

The tingling numbnesses

Of grief;

The semi-detached daze

Of depression;

The tight closing-in upon oneself

That foreshadows pent up tears.

The fear that accompanies

Nearly everything I do,

Meanders like a Mississippi ox-bow lake,

And can take years to return as a flood-tide

To knock me off my feet,

And gather to a greatness

All the threads of uncompleted hesitations,

Decisions and revisions, passing consolations,

That always leave me in this bloody mess

Of sense impressions.

Each contradictory set

Of firings in the brain

Set me on this rocky road

Again.