Melancholy

Melanie.
a sickly melancholy
ugly, tainted
and curling like the wind
it tugs at my warmth
and laughs like the wilted
grass in the valley;
toy-toy swaying like mocking fingers

Melanie
and her hair
like dark, silky waxy flax
and skin the colour
of sun-burnt sea
a key to this cage, I beg for thee

ignoring at once,
and then for all time
the aging chime,
dying shine of my heart
a bat that takes off
and neglects the cave
who wants to stew and rave in the dark?

feet paused on crumbling cliff
a ground that toes no longer grip
a river in which they dare not dip
fearing the change of everyday flow
until now,
oh the flaws, the trembling lip

how dare she feed on my eternal low
a circuit I know no longer glows?
A stone clad mountain, so sure and stable
and above all, the most fairest in the land.


Now flying toward me
a flock of jagged rocks below
the toy-toy sway like mocking fingers
make up for her lacking farewell.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It's no wonder she'll never know.

Reviews

[Michael G.]

The title certainly is a true description of this poem.
You have maintained this sad content throughout this piece... and it flows very well.
It makes one want to either hug this person, pat them on the shoulder, or just sit down beside them in silent support. Either way, a very good read. Thanks for the privilege.