Poem – Not used to this

I think that sometimes a person can feel strange about happiness:

 

Sees a bug and then two. 

And watches as they frolic.

This man is not used to

Not being melancholic. 

 

He steps on the dead leaves

And listens as they crumble.

He’s still in disbelief.

Perhaps now he should stumble.

 

And contemplating death

Is not as satisfying

As picturing that breast.

That sight is sanctifying!

 

He doesn’t want to aim

That cold gun straight to his head.

Has he become too tame?

Where’s the passion he once had?

 

Oh no, the passion’s there. 

But tragedy is not fun.

He inhales the damp air

And smiles at the autumn sun. 

 

He doesn’t feel anguish.

So what? Is it difficult

To finally flourish?

Look at the leaves made of gold…!

 

Damp and cool and alive

And his feet are somewhat chilly.

Why did his heroes strive

To abandon life so freely?

 

This man likes somebody

And that’s not such a big deal.

Now, drinking some coffee

Would have a greater appeal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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