We wake, shale-eyed,
clutching at cold, sharp edges,
eloping with sleep.
Dawn finds us on our knees,
scrabbling in the grit,
searching for crude tools
to chip away the grey.
Filed under Couplets, Free Verse, Poetry
Tagged as coping, depression, dread, morning, quarry, quarrymen, slate, sleep, tools
A truly apt comparison for depression–at its worst, it is truly a struggling muck that was seem capable of, at best, only chipping flakes away from, not crushing outright. The grey stretches on, and so do the days, one into another…
Doesn’t help, of course, that I get both sides of this. I’ve coupled with depression far too often; so too have I actually brought the visual of the miner into reality. I liked neither.
But the poem? This, I like.
Thanks Chris. It’s a tricky subject to write on but I find myself drawn to it at times. It’s a darkness like no other but being able to define the emotions and sensations that accompany it can sometimes let a little light in.
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