Words are weak spoons.

A poem’s solitary passage of time,
reminding you–a depression–
You lock your eyelids and palms
grip tight so as not to fall in.
A river, a sea,
images and emotions
you swallow them and
heave at the end.
A sigh, a retch;
you are shipwrecked,
wasting away
on sands of a memory
not
         even
                  your own.

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