For wistful days, and poignant crusades

When depression hits.

Sometimes the air seems piercingly crisp

As if it’s frozen in time

And I search for the right ruling to follow,

In repositioning

Or keeping utterly composed

All of the while, my lips are turning blue

On these capricious occasions,

My heart seems to harmonize

With the coloration of the feature,

Which lies languidly atop my chin