“Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.” (Emil Cioran)
Is the weakest of all forces yet
Is the one you can’t shield against.
It shapes the universe and confers it weight,
As an artist genus and implications to their opera.
As hope to all beings.
Also, is not ponderous as the imposed rectitude, nor
Musty as the feigned gallantry.
Mostly is a strapping yet ethereal presence, sort of
Mime of harmless specters that prey
In dark, on your sleep.
It is not skulking as starved beasts
Around wanderers’ tents, nor it
Allures curious tempers in
Misspending work rewards on shallow bric-a-brac.
Maybe is too that spiral vertigo I detect within for you.