Man with Depression

Man with Depression

He walks through mornings like broken glass,

The light cuts softly, the air too sharp,

A cup of coffee cools beside his hand,

And the silence grows heavy in the room.

He used to hum when the day began,

Now he listens for something that never comes,

A whisper of hope, a familiar voice,

But only the hum of his thoughts remains.

He sees faces move in the window pane,

But none turn toward him, none really see,

He wonders if absence has a shape,

And if his heart has learned to mimic it.

He counts the hours that never end,

Each minute pressing against his chest,

And though the world keeps spinning on,

He stands still, anchored by invisible chains.

He remembers laughter, bright as a flame,

How easily it used to come and go,

Now it feels like a language lost,

Something he once spoke, but cannot recall.

At night, he talks to the darkened room,

As if the walls might finally reply,

And though the silence gives no mercy,

It is the only friend that does not lie.