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.