When a moment of sadness overtook him
it was a living force.

Depression
set into his bones with such profundity that
it echoed a melancholic wave
into the atmosphere.

The very fact of his sadness
developed more sadness
in him and into the world.

He was a sadbeast;
the nighttime was his comfort
as often his tormentor.

A sadbeast isn't unhappy, per se,
but is always bittersweet,
even in the fresh morning light
amidst the dewy grass of a clear field.

With the sounds of birdsong in his ears
and a quiet prayer on his lips
the sadbeast could be equal parts
miserable and joyous.

There was no sense
in the sadbeast's heart,
and there was no emotion
in the sadbeast's mind.

He was a creature severed so purely
between this world and the next
that each breath was like
the first and last
for him.

He could know only peace
and no comfort.
Only fury
and no quiet.
The sadbeast couldn't die,
and he couldn't properly live,
either.