Midnight and I'm morose
And silent when
those poignant thoughts arose
from pungent wine
while I dine in a plaintive manner
alone.

Captivated by the melancholy
blood comforting
my forlorn jealousy
Captured by a sorrowful melody
languishing somber times past
regretting for not forgetting  

This pensive mood is no good
devours my woeful soul like food
leaving a doleful restlessness

Oh but what can cure heavy heartednesss?
or cure a sick at heart?

Nothing
(hence the dysphoria)

Pure of broken heart
so dishearten,
I grieve alone

And start to atone,
for heart of flesh
now turned to stone
is no longer fresh.

Up early in the morning
Last night's sleep had no mourning
Mutely gathering his thoughts
Mind astutely wrought

A spot of fishing by the river
Shall calm this mental shiver
Quick was he to the bait
For he saw no reason to wait
But slow was he in leaving
Leaving breadcrumbs for perceiving
Something they'll be able to clutch
The toast was a nice touch

So he went high on his rock
Where nothing stops but the clock
The sunlight strippled the trees
The water rippled at ease
Creating a tranquil ambiance
And he was happy, despite the atmosphere of transcience

And while he enjoyed his solitude
It did coaxed the rise of lassitude
That had an unfortunate longevity
Highlighting elation's brevity

So he jumped - fast - past the rock without violence
Plunging into the cold water in silence
The river washing his body and morality away.
Bring an ephemeral end to this mortality play.
But leaving on that rock, his toast
like footprints of a ghost

Some people know when it's time to breathe their final breath
Thoughts loose and you loathe losing
So shew no end, but Death -
And die the shortest choosing

How Strange.
You long for change,
but you are loath to redo.
And thus, loathe yourself.
And this loads on you,
on your coarse course.

Preventing the Metamorphose,
and forces you
into your torturous fortress.
A cocoon,
that protects against monsoons
but not the typhoon raging inside,
waking Typhon,
and blowing out
Prometheus's fire.

Oh how Oedipus Wrecks
the tedious good
until spiritless.
But never hopeless

Pandora's box is open
but Sparta's soldiers
will close it and guide you
from Tartarus to Olympus
and change, you will.

Shed your mortal grossness
for immortal happiness.
No common sense
that this recklessness
has consequences

When you do realize
What the Fates's foretold
it will be too late.