depression

    Now I know what depression is:
a world gone hollow, one's once-ample soul
reduced to tinny echoes of former prospects.
Things, gone.  The half-conscious stream
of possibilities slowed or stopped, night's darkness
nuzzling at the window.  Hollowness.  World of-
inanimate objects.  Just there.  Loss or rapport,
loss of contact.  Lassitude.  What difference does
it make, really?  The clock just ticking, measuring
what?  Drear rudderless lapse of days, movement
of life that signifies nothing.  A tale told
by an idiot?