Poems

Why this bane?
Why this chronic malady?
What have I slain; what great injustice have I arranged
To deserve this melancholic property,
That leaves me with no place to shine but in this marauded prosody?

When did I become so sullen?
So suddenly, so fallen?
So utterly sodden with tears;
When did my quixotic years give way to this nightmare,
This hopelessly downhearted and constant fight against this cruelest of mind snares?

And when I look towards the sun, why won't I find a light there?
Have I been blinded by the night's glare?
What happened to my life; why'd it become so hard to breathe and feel alive,
To heal my wounds,
To steal again the many rights that once adorned the hallways of my songs;
This feels so wrong.

I've never done a thing to god,
But now I've come to question if there's intervention after all--
For if a pestilence as this exists without a reason;
If an infection so horrendous as to render its infected dead/alive, and yet surrendered, has a place in mankind's thesis,
Then this is treason,
An unforgivable malfeasance;
And if a god can't wrest disease away from people that he keeps,
Then it is he that's held accountable to me.