“Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and, here and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost instantly as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent”. – Joseph C Lincoln

The tatters take me below the bow, the dip where there’s no time, a place where weights fall, in what could be a loss of mind. The genus it hides inside of me, and ask for six quarter time, something different, then this melodic rhyme. And pictures they paint a lesson, that’s already learned inside, so I cry, again waste this time, why waste this time. The tatters are made of fragile folds, inside this house, with pulled curtains, that stay always closed. And though teachers told me about ABC’s, they never taught me about me, inside, let the rage fall where light can’t see, the scars I will wear in wasted time, such wasted time.

A voice said the mountains fall into the sea’s, and somewhere, the great “I Am” lays down, and no longer beckons to that great celestial reef. Could I be different, maybe tomorrow, but right here and now, I am tatters, and that my reader shames me, in loss it shames me. I never wish a doubter to walk beyond these trees, to take to these dungeons, the ones with chains of inversed belief. All the same they still come, it seems invisible they chant, and how they tease. Can’t you mend those tatters on your own, bring the truth, to your belief, stop all this wasted time, this terrible wasted time.

I went to the garden, beyond the hedgerow, I ran to find the life filled tree. Lost so much weight, drank myself to the toast of life’s jubilee. Patched my clothes when they got old, hid the tatters with what I was told. Still at times their still here, useless without skill, they drag me deep. And here in the crevice, where dark angels no longer have wings. I look up, without a tear left in my eye, tatters inside of me, and it’s a waste of time, a terrible waste of time.

Here in my tatters, I place it all within reach, and if I could tell you, if it were known, by the lack of organization inside of me. There would come a time, maybe tomorrow, where I will be clothed, and there would not be wasted time.

350 million people worldwide suffer from depression. Per the World Health Organization (WHO) It is a leading cause of disability. – 02.28.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

52 thoughts on “Tatters

  1. Daniel, this is amazing work. I reread the following phrase so many times and saw myself. “I went to the garden, beyond the hedgerow, I ran to find the life filled tree. Lost so much weight, drank myself to the toast of life’s jubilee. Patched my clothes when they got old, hid the tatters with what I was told.” Thank you for writing this.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Daniel, as somber as this piece is, it might be my new favorite. Your descriptive words are in themselves what brings hope to the subject matter. If the valley is that deep, how high must the mountains be when climbed to see. This was a great work my friend. Shalom, Heather ❤


  3. I like so many of your readers read about myself in this piece. Thank you for bringing the awareness. This was a great description of my life at different times.


  4. The refrain wasted time repeated over and over again was what got to me the most. You have described depression accurately, and penned it as it is. Debilitating. Thank you.


  5. I know, Daniel. We all suffer so unspeakably at times, but God knows it’s OK, all of it. Thank you for hanging in there yourself, and for all the sacredness you let everyone feel…

    Shall we sit together for awhile? (Would you also invite beloved [Kate] to be divinely nurtured in this wonderful piece of yours and in this garden with us? Just, if you do, remember to not change again the publication date of this post.)

    Your ever-grateful brother Leon


  6. There is so much in your prose here, but the wasted time aspect is the most realistic expression of what depression debilitation is, that I have ever read. Thank you for shearing this solemn wonderful writing.


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