Happiness

You write of happiness
when all inside you've died;
everything you've touched,
all you've ever tried.

You write of happiness
when everything is gloom.
Black wings scrape your window,
trees barren of bloom.

For when you are happy,
you're too happy to write;
all that bubbles out
is pointless and trite.

But when black sadness
sits upon your soul
and into dark corners
you protectively crawl,

shadow memories of
lost happiness wake:
Oh what pretty rhymes
those memories will make.

So heart filled with gloom
- bony hands round your throat –
with tears in your eyes
'bout past happiness you gloat.