Melancholia wears no cloak, nor his face oft is shown,

slithering slyly into the confines of an otherwise claimed home.

Beget with fearlessness and hope does his journey start swift,

summoning comrades from Tophet through the barreling abyss.

Exquisite company does misery seldomly not yearn,

holding hostages due until true owners return.

Beware the Calvary’s coming! galloping angrily towards threat

even-tempered in conscience, vicious mercenaries at best.

Bliss, Support and Thrill comes the resounding, barreling quartet

yet it’s Triumph that roars thunderous, the Leviathan, fierce and wet.

In his devilish contortion does he cower in fear,

slimly evading capture as true victors draw near.

Such crusades often last not more than a pinch,

as the Calvary comes clothed, armed, and prepared for defense.

See, melancholia has no memory of his blunderous befores,

entrapped in might and ego, swallowed wholly by selfish lores.

Though robust with wit and brawn galore

He Surely lacks valiance, fit not for a king nor man at war.

Evermore reigns supreme bitter, hot, and alone

Melancholia enlists no Queen nor Prince to unhinge his wicked throne.

His prized assets are oft mistreated,

in the long run ends dark, deject, and defeated.

Winning always in sight but never in reach

too close, too far, too hidden, or too seen.

Evenmore than supreme reigns his ravenous soul,

eating alive at his own very goals.

While the Calvary waits surely in love, patience and glory,

Melancholia shrivels deep into the cracks of this story.

Stalking with precision and a benevolent pride,

Triumph may run, but never will it hide.

For ordained by the mightiest of the mighty mighty men,

sweet cherubs fight strong against formalities of sin.

Thorough in carnage, no fiend left undone,

battles have ends, wars never are won.

Evil bubbles deep in the bounds of Hell,

permeating and putrefying each corpse’s shell.

Downfall lies where one’s very eyes cannot see,

blinded by ego and purious tyranny.

In summation of such high-priced fights,

keep Melancolia out and the doors locked at night.

Invite in the Calvary, leave the enemy in the cold,

for he surely leaves, yet heroes grow old.

Such insatiable failings housed not in the tranquil bay,

nor the melancholic meadows afar

yet trapped in depths where brutes shall lay,

embedded into my heart.

The most personal of tragedies are never transcendent,

but spring briskly from within

yet adventurous souls look far and wide,

narrowly seeing the beginning and often missing the end.

F.B ♡