Posted on March 24, 2016 in Depression Poems

A white waste fades to gray,
gray sky, gray thought sinking,
stinking of the morass’s
scent of oily smoke.

I live here sometimes
listening to the voices of the white noise
screaming at the nonsense of my past,
shouting the nonsense of my past
ad nauseum
until the dead raven sings.

I am not yet happy with this poem — I am looking for a better end of the first line.

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