End In Sight

There are times when I wake
that an afternoon light has tempted my eyelids,
made me believe sunlight,
golden and streaming,
was pouring in to cover my face,
illuminate me in honey.
I wake expecting radiance.
I wake, expecting a meadow and butterflies.
I wake, expecting willow trees and youth.
I wake, expecting beauty,
and it takes some time for the light to fade;
I run to catch it in my memory,
but it goes wherever it goes,
and I am left in a dim grey nowhere,
no end in sight.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.