Melancholia

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From behind the curtain of thick grey fog

peeks melancholia, a familiar face and friend

Hope is but a distant mirage, even a wild bog

It kills you, leaving no sad evidence in the end

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The Autumn Within

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Outside, there is autumn – the colours of gold and rust

It comes for a month or two and then hits rock bottom

Inside, the autumn stays forever, heaps of ash and dust

It came when I was born, will leave when I’m all rotten

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Life and Times of the Yellow Moon

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Where does the yellow full moon vanish

when a new moon is born up there and far?

Does it become a memory, sweet but painful

dreams, that are either forgotten or they scar?

Or does it shatter into a million little pieces;

each piece evolving into a lovely shining star?

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