Flashes of Depression

The shadow of this bright star

Withholds from me the sight

Of the ethereal grace and

Beauty of this,

The world's most baited blight:

Love.

Wherein may I hold you

In my arms and weep

Not for the passing of years,

But for the countless

Rutting sheep?

Bray.

For what masterful grasp

Of the arts of tongue

And the transformation of

The edifices of these dark towers

Without rungs?

Rage.

To what deity must I

Prostrate before in supplication

For an audience with that

Most divine congress?

Masturbation,

Alone.

I seek that which is freely given

But is taken most forcefully,

Death in the kiss of a lesser love,

Eternal salvation from a lusty messiah,

False belief.

Faithless.