I do not write of good times -
only when I'm sinking
so that when I look back
I remember what I was thinking.

I should write of the good times
they are fleeting and remain
in the quick nostalgic summers
and the small bridges of pain

poets claim that ignorance is bliss; how they crave its bitter sweetness.
philosophers say that knowledge is the sheath of life.

the protagonist
suffers loss of sanity
in this pandemic

decay;

it is the spring goddess' advantage against her immortal lovers
undying as they come
they fall to the ground -

fall, fleeting life like the petal of a flower, wilting without water and sun -

Persephone's is the hand quick enough to catch the appendage;
she is old and new all the same
for as she dies she is reborn;

unlike the gods, who know, always, decay -
decay, but never death.

nothing to give
and still
nothing to dream