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.