A particular brand of melancholy
follows
occasionally.
I've never figured out
if it is internal
or external.
It comes
and goes
like the moon.
Perhaps it is
the moon?
I think of those
people
that say things like,
"retrograde"
and so on.
They have decided
that it isn't
internal
so they look elsewhere.
Up.
I don't suppose I can blame them.
I don't particularly want to be blamed
for myself.
The ego dislikes.
Should I, too, look
up
for blame?
I don't think I can do it.
The unknown
holds too much respect
from me.
It would be arrogant to blame
up.
Alas the melancholy is there
regardless of blame.
Like a visitor
unwelcome
though known.
And we sit together
quietly;
the weight between.
Living in molasses.
Slow and tired
without reason,
but for the company.
The worst is the feeling of ineptitude,
of inadequacy.
Like I know that I can be more,
that I am more,
though I don't feel it now.
At least it is familiar to me,
and I know I will return
before too long
melancholy departs.
Until we meet again.
I believe in purpose
though unknown
and regularly unknowable.
What purpose does this
feeling hold?
If nothing more
than muse
to mediocre poetry.
I expect that's
not
quite
it.
I do notice
a different lens.
And an uneventful peace.
They are both at odds
with the norm;
I should be thankful for that.
An unearned shifting framework
could be a gift
if not otherwise accompanied
by a lack of desire
to do anything with it.
I'll reflect on that
day by day;
it seems to be one of those things
difficult
to know while in the middle.
That could be a cop out
so I don't need to work
to actually figure it out.
But if it's just the moon
then I'd be sitting here
forever
anyway.
I'll take the out.
11380' 