One day out of seven
Not a bad ratio
But of course that all depends
What you talk of
What side of the equation you are on
In this instance it was running out of words
Not knowing
The next thing to write
Not knowing
The next thing to think
And most certainly, in those moments
I did not think back
To that last one in seven chance
Such then as were my opportunities limited
Such then my escape into silence
Ever more profound, ever less pronounced
Then to read, thanks to Maria Popova
Of the damming of the word depression
An onslaught on its lack of anything useful
Better then to return to the previous term
Melancholy, and how that word now so so
Rightly masquerades, if sung in a mohair suit
