Ode To Melancholy
Tho' woe begone I am found too deep,
my silent suffering has a credulous will
unwilling acceptance, it strives to keep
persistence edging towards that landfill.
Resentment of those the pain it carries,
such viciousness to move a past master
to exude fall and pain my twain it varies,
in all matters, relating to each disaster.
The difference is unhurried melancholy,
it has blatantly given us smaller mercies
which often force us into choosing folly
to instigate the mind our outrage curses.
It leaves one as this indigenous species,
insurgence swore astutely, with a blithe
disgruntled sorrow as the will decreases,
bearing down, too wrought to be alive.
Yet grief defines how hoary overawed,
upon this discovery without it resolute
not far from keeping, my having stalled
much sleeping in this state of ill-repute.
Copyright © Titus Llewellyn | Year Posted 2020
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