A poem, depression (english is not my mother tongue)

The skies are dead, the flowers, the grass, dead.

When I ask, the objects are silent.

When I grasp at things

they vanish in the air

I look at my hands.

like a magician surprised by his own trick.

Everything is formless.

im chasing the echoes of what was mine

Through the vastness of my own repercussions.

Somewhere close

I hear a distant crying .

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it’s a good poem.

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Good poem

Very insightful

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thanks @lekkerhondje and @steffifan - it means a lot on a day like this.

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