Wading in the Shadows

There are days of abated vigor when zest is at its lowest ebb.
No amount of sap commensurate to the task
Of lifting the soul high above the mud and mire.
My head droops low while feigning constancy
When inside reeks the stink of stagnancy.

Reliving the age of the conquering spirit,
A mammoth task it seems in the now of despondency.
Though I cannot muster that which can rescue me,
Yet must I hold to the hope of another, who sees,
And holds the keys to this prison from which I must flee.

Dark days proceed from blackened nights.
A perpetual eclipse of the sun of grace.
This it seems when down in existential bottom,
When eyes of faith strain to behold the piercing rays.
Blindness a blessing when trapped in crooked ways.