in the throes of
another depressive state
it can seem as if
the darkness is just
an ocean of agonizing
enforced clarity
but in reality
the depression is
a series of mud puddles
just deep enough to
submerge my head
the latest storm passes
and it is only
a matter of time
before i slip and fall
facefirst into the
next murky pool
hesitant steps in the
streaming sunlight
another slick hidden
to cartwheel me through
the fetid air to slide
back into the muck
the depths are impossible
to truly fathom
when every pained breath
is more of the same
giving an illusion of
endless suffering among
the puddled depressions
that never quite dry out