Melancholia

An empty heart,

Cold and bleak,

In the winter of desire.

The haunting lament of

A mourning dove echoes

Down its abandoned

Hallways

As withered leaves

Scatter before a frigid wind.

I wander the desolate

Passages of my heart,

Searching for signs

Of life,

But find only desiccated weeds,

Cold, cracked tiles, and

A stagnant pool where

Once life proffered

An alternate existence,

And the melody of the

Dove was a lullabye.

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