as melancholies belong to a darker place
that's far and away from the beamish stars,
they'd wrinkle and crease with, furrows and lines
those faces traced with scowls and frowns

https://soundcloud.com/rula68/where-melancholies-live

the last great catch of a man
didn't look like Sasquatch, didn't
smell like three days of bad fish
didn't hover over the far land in his
own hot air

some little woman
saw him for what he was
and then shot and bagged him
had him stuffed
like a trophy wife

i heard she got away with it, too
then took a plane somewhere deep and dark
in Budapest, squandering
her laughter.

Add a bit of music to this verse
and transform it to a song,
one in which you might immerse
and listen to the whole day long.

For background, rustling fallen leaves
as a squirrel seeks a last acorn
joined by a mourning dove which grieves
the loss of warmth this winter morn.

The woodwinds are the ducks and geese
whose notes vary from low to high
which they all gladly release
while conducting through a cobalt sky.

my dear,
howl at the moon

like a madman
in a cage

rip fragile clothes
from silken skin

and waltz

my darling,
laugh for nothing

but reasons
in the dust

for dust is but dust
when shown to the wind

my lover,
turn to me

let air
fill your lungs

and scream for me

for i wish not
to be

but those
who cannot speak
without smiling

so smile
leaving crows feet
at the door

and run my dear
run throughout the night