Solitary Thoughts

Everything else deemed cathartic
Poetry as Called For

Melancholia

It is like sitting in a wood
All day
With fire within, burning,
but embers are all that remain;
For as much as little stains
Blots
Dots
Sit unperturbed, enclosed;
In spaces–yes, those:
They mar what the soul
Desires to see:–

Light and its omnipresence.

3 Comment

  1. I can feel a patina of the empty, the hollow, and of seeking. This is beautiful–in a quietly powerful way. I do love the hopeful ending.

    I hope you feel better soon.

    I can’t be online as often since I’m working part-time in the afternoons.

    1. Thanks for your comment, Karla! I was experiencing lots of pathos ever since yesterday; and with that I could not help but write multiple blog posts (even if I found even just a tad bit of producing an output felt so daunting).

      It’s okay, I understand 🙂 And it’s really great you’re working part-time!

      1. The ‘pathos’ is noticeably palpable. Writing on pathos seems to be working out for you. I remember reading something from a site which says that artists cannot really produce anything apart from pain. Or was it ‘great art comes from great pain’. I can’t remember which artist or writer said that, though.

        Yes, I’m working during the afternoons until the evenings, so I’ve been remiss on social media duties.

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