The Heart of Melancholy

The Heart of Melancholy

Here in,
The heart of melancholy,
I can’t see out,
To the mother you’ll never be,
The mountains of Mourn,
Rendered so sketchily,
Scrublands are scumbled,
And scratched out finally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Hearing;
The art of melancholy,
Words fall out,
Of mouths that so readily,
Talk of smiling and angels,
Land so heavy, messily,
Worm-casts on sand,
Emptied out faecally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Witless,
The arsehole of brevity,
Takes my hand,
But never once looks at me,
“Comes to us all”,
I goggle incredibly,
The fuckers a hundred,
Why can’t it be he?

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,