What ails thee, my soul?
It seems all things, Sire, for l am tired and nothing wipes away the weariness.
Nothing tempts the tastebuds to be entertained.
I eke an existence working at what I must, but wish only to be somewhere, and something else.
Depression descends from a wisp of cloud to a wrapping fog.
I want to do things- I want to enjoy... but always the trivia of the day demands me, or if free of that, I am too tired.
Will you desert me, O my Soul,
and leave me a bitter shell,
empty of spirit and lost of life?
Where else can I go, Sire?
You are my life. There is no one else.
When I am silent and alone- when the crowds have gone and the night has come, I love you.
You are me. I am you. It is well.