Whispers of Melancholy

Ain't an absurdist, but what is love?

I thought I had a niche,
A semblance of insanity,
Traversing my soul
As it stumbles on bellows.
A pure lake, I have wasted,
Waiting, tumbling in harness,
No torch in that abyss,
I slack, mornings and bed webs.

The insane dwells, snarling,
I hate for all sake,
As if it will never end.
I see it, they will say it's
Bad breath, and you say good,
A goodbye with slow breaths,
Dreaming of blue lions,
The night loots you.
I choose to live.