The Perpetual Squalor of the Empty Mind

Oh god the pain
The tearing at the soul
The utter devastation of lost tomorrows
All gone
Sand is all
And the dust
The dust everywhere
Lack of reason or hope
And the perpetual squalor of the empty mind
The futility of grasping
All is out of reach
And left here waiting for death
For the release of this pain
And the eternity of quiet
Here still the wrenching
The mind twisted by knowledge and lies
With an unquenchable desire for more of each
Not able to make good cause
With enemies of understanding
Just in puddles of dank sweat
Dripping desperately to the bottom
Where light's absence is the only surety
And therein depression shouts awkwardly
Beguiling somehow
Seized in the tentacles of sorrow
Wondering how to do anything
Anything at all