Pleasant moments are treasures in the darkness;
hidden away and uncovered by adventurers and kings;
shared among those who keep secrets
and whisper them as jokes between friends.
They are illusive as fairies living on windowsills,
frollicking in garden pastures and forest groves
until someone steals a glance; then they disappear
or hide in the corner of the eye, giggling
because happiness is the only way to pass the time.
Melancholy is the way of the world
when the sun awakes, but covers are drawn
over the head and people die inside thinking of existing.
It is silence in the evening; deep yawns and aching bones
that say, “you’re alive and times are bad,”
though friends and strangers insist it will get better.
All the moments of loneliness rear their head
and bite at heels, driving onward to the comfort of oblivion
as the world looks on in shame at flights of angst.
Because sadness is a sin only the weak dare commit.