Melancholy
Why, on a quite night,
Does a man sit in one place to think?
What does he write?
Why does he write?
Could he be lonely, night after night,
As he scratches his thoughts in words?
Who does he miss? What does he miss?
Could he ever be happy again?
As he listens and sees liveliness, happiness,
Why is he dull and quiet?
What darkens his soul?
What dampens his fire?
Where did all the happiness go?
Could he look back, to moments in his life,
Where prospects looked dark and grey?
Could he look forward, to a distant future,
Where the world could end in a flash?
Does he fear the world�s demise?
Or could it have already been dead?
His dark eyes seem to reflect the dark events in sight,
Where optimism fails to succeed.
He sees death, demise, tragedy;
His own, or perhaps of a friend?
Could he ever be able to stop it in time?
Could the motive ever be done?
He thinks against it, for his spirits depress,
The shadows reflect in his heart;
The knife of fate strikes him in the back,
And he knows why it came to him.
But could we be wrong?
Could he really be happy,
And showing a plausible emotional mask?
Could he use this for others� condolences,
Or could he really not care?
No one knows but him,
No one else knows for sure.