The Bowl

The bowl overwhelms me – there is no other place;

the bowl is blank and drear, just like my haggard face.

They tell me it’s still out there – the world of my youth,

I hear consoling words but can’t see their truth.

There is no world but my bowl – it’s here I am reborn

and from its dark chasm my soul cannot be torn.

I hear them explain “it’s depression you are in”

but I know in my heart it’s the sum of all my sin.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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