The Hollow.

She tiptoes through the cobwebs of her mind,
Afraid to disturb the lingering echoes of what
Once were feelings, hopes and dreams. Those
Doors were bricked up long ago, back in the
Time when? She cannot remember, days blur
By. It's better this way though sometimes when
The seconds turn to minutes and nothing happens
She wonders if now is the time to say goodbye?

She cringes back at the sound of the phone, or
A knock at the door. That life is gone now, one
That intrudes on her privacy, all she has left.
Robing herself in a cloak of darkness, spun by
Empty plates and bottles discarded on the floor,
A mountain of papers to climb before she sinks
Down, the cushions scattered by late nights
With the box on it's stood blaring nothing.

She's scared of the silence, though it would be
Welcome. Maybe then she'd drift away like
Thistledown or dandelion puffs in the wind
Of forgetfulness, if only one small thread would
Give away; send her hurtling down the path
Into infinity. The cobwebs part for a moment
She sees a face in the mirror and does not know
The stranger who looks back at her, disconcerted.

She counts words that start with the letter D.
Desolate, despair, discarded, diminished.
Despondent, despised, distracted, devoured.
The litany soothes her for a while, until she
Finds the one that can't be spoken. It's full of
Meaning, yet so lightly said. How can anyone
Hope to understand or breathe its name?
Depression is the hollow between life and death.

© Lisa Fuller March 2006.