The Swings Of Depression (Rev. / Rep.) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Walking out the front door
of a house she called space,
found a comfortable bench,
in a bog by a rusted set
of tall chained swings,
Walking out the front door
of a house she called space,
found a comfortable bench,
in a bog by a rusted set
of tall chained swings,
and steep crooked slides,
filled with children laughing
in her Mind from scores ago.

And, there she sat down
to rest, muse, ensconce-
in memories she'd locked away
scores ago;
moments of her life
still worth reminiscing,
images and reflections
that elicit tears of joy and grief.

And with both legs stretched out,
her arms crisscross folded,
her eyes lifted skyward,
seeking out the gray billows-
of clouds she could image
as ethereal silhouettes,
of the many who had left her
years and years ago;
as a child, as a wife,
as a woman and best friend;
yet, the images were faded
like book shelves paved with dust,
from an old village bookstore,
that died of 'Forward Progress',
its worth now insignificant.

And because so, as she sat alone
she considered herself the same.
She had learned in her later years
by her own convoluted instincts,
from shades of apprehension,
to a veil of reclusivity,
so to shelter her egg-shell moments
from the wounds, nails and glass
that we all must cross
upon living out mortality,
as we know it, and cannot change it.

She took this inside her Mind,
and began to measure her worth,
yet, with the same skewed yard-stick
she'd measured with for years.

In the morning they found her
head slumped and hanging
from the shortest of the chain swings.

Depression, is deception
that aborts the Mind of logic,
purges the Heart of desire,
skews and distorts sense of value,
like rusted swings in an empty bog.



FjR-MMXVI

*Revised-01-19-17
Reposted-01-28-17

FjR-MMXVI