Vincent's Villanelle: Depression

Cannot think with a head of clay.

Why must life always come to grief?

Is there no other better way.

To the devil must I pay

in order to find some relief.

Bargain my life into the clay

On the cold ground my corpse to lay

though it is against my belief

perhaps there is no other way.

No longer can I run or play

from here that time seems all too brief

I can no longer shape the clay.

I hear the chatter of a jay

he will not take this fog; the thief

I tell him to just go away.

My sadness he would not slay.

Joy wreaks upon my stony reef.

Beneath my feet is frozen clay,

as I trudge along the dark way

Vincent Seeger   

Cannot think with a head of clay.

Why must life always come to grief?

Is there no other better way?

To the devil must I pay

in order to find some relief.

Bargain my life into the clay,

on the cold ground my corpse to lay

though it is against my belief

perhaps there is no other way.

No longer can I run or play

from here that time seems all too brief.

I can no longer shape the clay.

I hear the chatter of a jay.

He will not steal this fog—the thief!

I tell him just to go away.

My sadness he could never slay.

Joy wreaks upon my stony reef.

Beneath my feet is frozen clay,

as I trudge along the dark way.