Rockall

Rockall

He said to me the other day, dewy-eyed:
"I'm depressed, I reckon.
Things seem a bit too much -
stressed out with exams and that."
Waiting at the Pelican, I couldn't help
thinking that this depression 

millark was different for me. The dialogue came freely
as I thought back to its one-stop arrival
during anxious teens:
"Depression is
end-on forks - white hot
running into each other.
Not giving, nor bending and
seemingly unending.

Just clash-clash-clash;
while brain waves break
over immovable, algae-streaked thoughts;
and the dull yearning,
for crying, and its loose, thick, luxuriant quenching."