Under the cover of rain
melancholy walked in quietly, without even knocking
she shares my room these days
though she came empty handed
she carries a lot of extraneous baggage
my feeble protests do not deter her
strewing pain and guilt around
my eyes she refuses to meet
yet sits on their sleep hungry swollen rims
she forages each nook and cranny
surreptitiously nibbling at the stale remnants of joy for sustenance
she tucks me under the blanket of wretchedness every night
singing a dolorous threnody that keeps me awake
lacing her finger through mine, sitting with a hangdog expression
Hope that lay in an apathetic torpor
within my withered and withdrawn soul
slowly shed sluggishness to become sapient
unable to watch melancholy getting ensconced
she leaves a fragile paper bag through the ajar window
that faintly twinkles with tiny sequins of happiness
my hands, tired of the burden of pessimism
clutch at the sliver of sanguinity
struggling for coherence in existence
I start to stitch haphazard, tiny patterns of joy
melancholy now often skulks in a corner
lethargic and inefficacious in the face of hope.
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