sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
eyes flit to a distant memory, a
different time ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
where stories weave in and out of
a young mind ー
sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
once weighed down by heavy blocks of unmelted ice ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
but are now buoyed by words, floating up freely to the surface ー
sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
bravery bubbles up on the inside,
shattering the ice coating your tongue ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
the word house finally opens,
but nothing comes out.

Melancholic people.
******’ melancholic people.
Always craving what has passed
what was lost, what it didn’t last.
In words, lines, books,
in the lyrics of songs,
in the music of music
or in the stupid thoughts of the stupid.

Bring them peace,
they will dream of war.
Bring them war,
they will paint with birds your walls.
Bring them love,
and your head in a spike will rot.
Bring them hate,
and they will thank you for it!

These…
Melancholic people,
these beings who can only do three things:
Breathing, eating, and *******!
These..
These puppets I love from a long time ago,
these beings of light
that spend their whole life
hiding under a brown facade of snow.

Oh take me home
To my melancholic road,
Where I used to stroll everyday.

Where all you would hear
Was the song of a wing
And a sigh was all you would say.

Where all you would smell
Was the freshest of air
And the sweetest of colours in May.

Oh take me home
To my melancholic road,
Oh take me back for one day.