Melancholia

Torn with rabid guilt,
my melancholy mood
is humoured by ephemeral visions
of exciting validity.
Innocuous to the truth,
fleets of jet black clouds
cumulating
on the horizon
of infinity.
Rain splashing teardrops
Of indolence upon
my shattered dreams,
uttering husky treats of anarchy.
Left alone in the
steamy mist of recognition,
my mood is replenished once and forever
by sons and grandchildren
far beyond
the dyes of darkness.
Bewildered by belligerence,
delivered by eternity
to a fête a la vie,
the rosemary stocked
in the garden of yearning.
To see the Chinese trap
a coherence of existential withering
upon my mood of melancholy.
Boredom within the wisdom
of exorcising the brains traits
of sluggish snail paths,
silver glistening.
Redemption wantingly grown from
the harbours of political faith
and philosophical bait.
My mind is crucified
yet another day
upon my mood of melancholy