Inquire Within




How is a single
Teardrop capable
Of dispiriting felicity
Manipulating joviality
Or turning tranquility
Into tumultuousness?

And when did melancholy
Become so inquisitive
As to not only undermine
Certainty with doubt, but
To ultimately convince
A metaphoric crescent
Of feigning contentment
While accusing laughter
That a facsimile had been
Its only genuine aspect?

And as familiar sadness
Amplitudes my perception
And consideration willingly
Succumbs to indifference
Should I find it appalling
That my happiness was
So eager to submit and
Settle as complacency
Inside my memory's past?


Because I don't