Pick a piece, there falls another,
Slowly and steadily, I wither,
Feels like this process has now gone forever.
Mould it may, me into something better,
Or perish I may into nothingness forever.
For I try to carve myself,
And try to shape into something new,
But the older carvings don't wipe at all,
Don't bend for the new ones to stand tall,
And eventually lead to a fall.
YOU ARE READING
Melencholia
PoetryAbruptly, a pull stirs within, peeling back every layer to reveal the raw terrain of your emotions. Memories surge-echoes of what once dominated, now striking with familiar intensity. Years of unspoken weight break free, pouring forth a torrent of m...
