Depression Poem by no name

A heavy tide that has no sound,
It pulls the anchor from the ground.
The colors of the morning sky
Are filtered through a leaden eye.
It isn't sadness—sharp and clear—
But a hollow weight that lingers near,
A fog that settles in the chest
And makes the simplest movement rest.
The world moves on in vibrant speed,
While you are sown like silent seed,
Buried deep where light is thin,
Wearing a shell of tired skin.
The things you loved are far away,
Ghosts of a different yesterday.
You wait for sparks that will not start,
While winter occupies the heart.
Yet even in this sunless deep,
Where all the weary shadows sleep,
The breath remains, a quiet line—
A stubborn, rhythmic, soft design.
It is a season, long and vast,
A slow-motion storm that has to pass.
Until the gray begins to break,
You simply breathe, for breathing's sake.