Sympathy is a depthless thing, scrawled into essence
By those who cannot bare the consistent despondencies
That kisses them as mothers do when they ship you away
To places impossible to recognize.
Sensibly, I may have done these due diligences,
And I may have let the confusion of it be
For seven years now,
As someone that is sad and empty, empty and sad.
The black Greek bile masters this vertebrae and chokes the life from me,
And it denies my mouth of its wants and needs,
Its desires and proud esteems
To talk and talk and talk
To men who have done nothing with their lives,
Except act in perpetual delight,
And be the happiest of vulgar flowers,
Astounding me with their ease to prevail,
The limerence, and drive to feel all it is they feel,
Waiting for sympathy, sympathy, sympathy.
O I wonder what they would think
If I tell them everything I have a pension to talk about.
I wonder what they would give me.
Will it be pity? Sympathy?
Those ugly, ugly words.
They melt in my mouth like snow,
The snow king I am.
I am the god of winter now,
Yes, yes, the bringer of winter through a cracking conch!
When I blow it, will it be pity I am given?
Will I turn into slate brick and become another Antigone,
Believing I am fated to share a similar death
With the woman whose body and feelings turned into stone?
It is deep anguish-nothing but deep anguish!
I already am the god of winter and snow,
And so these skies and pine-green auroras and nebulae are mine,
Mine and mine!
I look to them for good and nothing but,
And they look back at me as though I am crazy!
No, no, I am not.
Nothing but,
And I do not need any sympathy.
What will they think, these men,
When this depression of mine finally expires,
And I rise from snow-turned-ash,
Down from a grotesque and pristine-white borealis?
Down from white,
No more one of deficiencies,
Instead a fiery god
Of spring and six more.
