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When one is down inside oneself
and has some hidden gray agendas,
when cobwebs of the inner mind
do not conceal the rancid secrets,
when one's sole horse in one's sole stable
is called a Masochista Mare
one does perceive clouds of depression
which block the sun one craves so deeply.
Yes the Deceiver is alive,
related to one's distant past
it strangles intellect and soul
and keeps the drapes closed through the day
and does not know the self or others
the giant shadow needs its shade.
Oh what a life, though not to envy
it does not have wide open eyes,
downcast is what the soul has ordered
to see the pitfalls, lest one falls.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: depression, horse, son
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