Depressed, With Halo Poem by Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson

He wears his depression
like a tarnished, tattered,
scratched and dented halo,

scavenged at some demented
yard sale,
bought and sold on the cheap

(But, oh! The price he pays –
Priceless!)

His pants hang
dejectedly, sadly,
drooping and dragging,
two sizes too large

His shoulders, dripping
with no self-confidence at all,
have given up
even trying to unbend, unstoop,

down-trodden, hopeless,
no energy,
no spirit,
no charge

His head hangs forward
on a neck with no spine,
cocked slightly sideways,
avoiding a long-ago

slap

a resounding shadow
of ancient, horrid history
still ever-present,
still looming large and very, very

still

Given the gravity
of the situation,
I can no longer push
the elephant
up his steep and treacherous
hill

Still…