Sadness is a quite particular ailment.
More persistent than an infection,
Easier to treat than a disorder,
Not so unavoidable as a syndrome.

Deceitful, however, it calls to the weak-minded.
The temporarily disadvantaged find shelter in its grasp,
they are consumed by rationale, and allowed
to simply cease to be. Quite the lucrative offer.

The proponent of sadness is truth,
When extraneity is left and cognition remains,
we recount the sorrow intrinsic to our existence,
and we take solace in this recognition.

Strangely, I am freer in this present than any other,
care and worry's steel no longer binds me.
Yet escaped from my cell I only find the sun blinding;
It will not accommodate me, and I return burnt.

How I long to be truly yours for only a moment more,
Hosanna