~ for the poet by the same name,
Melan,
a name derived from the Greek "melas"
meaning "black" or "dark"~
<>
oft have we warned you, be wary,
every phrase, a provication,
a cribbed script from a message,
a poem, even a pen name, says,
marke me man, the notion of the
Melancholoy of Innocence
a burr buried in my head's bed,
a sleep robber, a pseudo~scholar,
so intriguing this grand challenging
notion...
of the purity of melancholoy's essence

my oldest friend from an early age,
before I knew the word to grasp~capture it,
in my youthful tristesse grave,
what rendered my soul so vulnerable
to an emotion that had no direct visible cause,
but powered me with a puzzling
strange insight of keen visibilty,
that filtered a glow about all, about what
my eyes saw, my heart felt...

nearly now, the better part of a century,
I recall the first days of exploration,
of a world, that
dished out equal portions of
ecstasy and misery,
and well taught me the value
of silence
of observation,
and how to record
a memory so that so many, so many decades later,
is crisp with its original fraglity
that overwhelmed way back when
I was but a toddler

a world that was cruel,
a lesson, that came very early,
but made me quiet but not surly,
observant of the human quirks and their potential,
the people surrounding acting in an up dated version
of a Bible Tale..

where guilt and innocence were precise and clear,
and there was no middling muddle,
to confuse, or be abused,
to obfuscate or obscure

lines of demarcation in black clearly drawn,
so it was soon gone, the innocence,
that was gifted to us all at birth,
and though I mourned its loss,
very quick came the silent thought of,
well, that's no surprise!

that melancholy matures, extends and distends,
now and then, even shocks,
by the newness of returning old sadness,
and the ceativity of its constant reintroduction,
accompanied by a startled,
well, that's no surprise!

and here the shocker though,
acts of human kindness are not so far and few between,
just perhaps, less well advertised,
so when spotted. self similar words emerge,
even happy shouted,
well, that's a surprise!

His fears were eclipsed by crackling amber crystals caressing the plums on each side of his nose, retexturizing the
squelches beneath his marooned tread – cushioning this fallen star as he prepared to grow new roots. Hurricanes of
melody camouflaged his screams with a symphony of vibrato from an overseeing parliament of wise, wide-eyed, totems with infinite flight. Silently, the heavens rinsed the pain from his eyes to sweeten the acorns of lost hope he had
****** upon him as a souvenir from his shipwreck. Depth begets strength to this sapling as he embarked on this
streetified forest through a shimmering of honeycomb and goldenrod shards cutting through crimson flakes as if nature
was stealing pigment from God herself; only rejecting the royalist of purples to comfort peering shining stars as they
witness his resplendence amongst a grounded haze of jewelled apricots greenly repulsed by the sin of gravity.

Imposed poison touch
forced ejection from the womb.
Run! Rebirth? Marooned.

An auspicious occasion,
It becomes a suspicious one.
You want to obliterate it off your memory,
But end up trying to illiterate it instead.
A pinnacle of politeness,
Becomes a pineapple instead.
Malapropism is such a nice phenomenon!

A hole, A road, A Dream
All lie on one path
All will get you screams
All will pass.

your road you'll follow
With happiness and sorrow
With a heart that's hollow
Through countless time

Walk or run, it's all the same
You can beg the road to change
but your sun won't answer
And the shadows you fear remain

But don't worry
We will all fall
All in the deep dark hole
With screams or a moment of silence
We'll all fall of the cliff
We're all going into one big hole.

Child of clay,
Born in the shadow of death and decay.
Shaped and formed into what they're expected to be,
To be manipulated easily.

By the very hands that made them,
The hands that were supposed to care.
But what if they hate them, what then?
The creation crushed with just one stare.

And yet again, they're shaped and molded,
To always look as they please.
If they're not perfect, they will get scolded,
The cycle always repeats.

And when the creator is satisfied,
The flames **** the life out of the creation
They don't ever care about the child,
Just want to fulfill their temptations.

So the child stays alone,
Like none of this ever mattered.
And if it falls from the shelf, down below,
Its soul will immediately get shattered.

They told me love was butterflies,
A spark, a flutter, a fleeting high.
I believed in hearts that race,
In passion’s sweet, relentless chase.
But time, the teacher, whispers low:
Love is more than feelings show.

Look at those who’ve walked the years,
Through laughter bright and silent tears.
Do they still feel the fevered thrill,
Or something deeper, stronger still?
There are days they fight, they ache,
When love seems almost a mistake.

Yet in the anger, in the rain,
In moments of the deepest pain,
Love remains, a quiet force,
A steady hand that charts the course.
Not just a feeling, wild and free,
But a choice, a will, a loyalty.

So love is more than what we feel,
It’s what we build, it’s what we heal.
Through storms and calm, through wrong and right,
It’s what we hold, through darkest night.
A bond, a vow, a sacred art—
To love when it’s hardest on the heart.