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.