Depression

Weak is my heart, and weakly is whispers,
“Where is the cure that would cleanse me of dross?”

Worn is my conscience and weary is whimpers,
“Why must I toil for this being of flaws?”

Heavy my mind, and heavy it wonders,
“When will the truth make more sense than the lie?”

Broken my passion, and barren it founders,
“How will I be saved when none hear my cry?”

Crippled my reason, and crouching it murmurs,
“What is the answer to why evil wins?”

Lost is my soul, and lonely it utters,
“Who will unshackle me from my sins?”

Weak and weary, heavy and broken,
Crippled and lost where nothing is woken
To stir hearts to hope, or conscience refresh;
To lighten the mind, heal zeal on a wish;
To straighten bent reason, or find the lost soul;
Where the cup is emptied that never was full.

Entombed in depression that never will yield;
‘Tis measure of comfort to moan, not be healed.