Whither to turn? He moaned.
Struggling to claw out of the ditch,
Found he neither nail-hold nor foothold
To heave himself out;
Slushy, slimy, smudge, slithery,
The ditch of depression was gorging him;
None to drag him out,
All busy with themselves.
Time stood still, its stillness
Choked him, spectral state;
Mind freezing, senses benumbed,
Caught in the whirlpool, twirling,
Spinning down and down,
He felt his toes touching sand;
A hazy, misty shore, it was!
Shadowy figures rambled around
Freely, breezing him.
Himself, an airy being now!
Past gone past, the present
Greeted him, he was glad;
Substance in shadow he discovered,
And peaceful he was, now
That he left his earthly abode.
Death Is Welcome!
