Melancholia

She runs with the wolves,
And she tears hares apart.
She pulls deer to pieces as well.
And, when our paths cross,
She rips me to shreds
Or fixes me under her spell.

I try hard to walk
With my head held erect.
With a wave, though, she bids me to crawl.
I slither along
With my nose to the ground,
A shadow to her castle wall.

I’m more than unsure
What I can have done
To justify treatment like this.
Sometimes, when I ask,
She says, “Don’t you know?”
At others, she blows me a kiss.

It’s such gentle scorn
Which brings me to tears,
As I’m lying there on the floor;
Since I recognise
With stern self-reproach
It’s this keeps me yearning for more.

Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

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