I am older than the dirt
that you kick so aimlessly,
a distant dog yelping
at the edge of your mind.
I am the black that greets you
when its colour you seek.
A sepia toned rainbow
without a promise attached.
I take the petals from your rose
and leave you the thorns to ***** you,
till you bleed while I grin wickedly.
I am the barbed sliver
hooked within your bones
turning deeper as you scratch.
I am the rug pulled from under you
as you lay naked in your humiliation.
I am the cold tide rising
over your head as you struggle
with weighted arms sinking.
I am the broken mirror reflection,
that haunts you, mocking you
with a thousand voices screaming.
The constant prodding driving you
through razorblade fields of grey
laughing at the cleaving of darkness and light
as crimson beads of sorrow fall like rain,
going drip, drip, drip in time
with the beating of your heart.
I am the solitude that surrounds you,
a blade of grass among the trees,
a homeless vagabond in the doorway.
I take from you slumbers sweetness,
pillaging your dreams, leaving an echo
painted grey and blue.
I come to you dressed as the night
stealing your North Star to hide it
within the folds of my robes.
I am the gilded lie whispered in your ear,
the belligerent guest that won’t leave
and though you try and sedate me
and hate me, I will always be
that ink stain on your white shirt.
My name stings as it lingers on your cracked lips,
I am Melancholia.
An older poem written after my divorce when the world seemed very black.