Flowering Melancholy
Invasive this vine is,
killing the tender leaves
of hope, joy, and esteem
Its tendrils wind their way
around our minds, our hearts
Its thorns pierce
and the sting poisons--
warping our thoughts
and twisting our will
We busy ourselves with
the constant task of hacking away
at its stem
But it always comes back
its roots buried deep in
the soil of our subconscious
We busy ourselves to forget
but Diversions, like the knife that cuts the stem,
merely delay its inevitable growth.
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