Melancholy

 

There was a distinct melancholy in his eyes.
Life, the way it swirled around him,
the breezes stroked the embers
of controversies unresolved,
rather than soothed, like eucalyptus.

He was conversation-less.
Not at a loss for words, but the words lost,
deep within the dark shadows
which enveloped his spirit.

For awhile he walked the towpath along the river
thinking that the canopy of leaves,
the dappled sunlight,
the ripples on the flowing waters,
would provide consolation.

Now his walking shoes
lie in a corner.
Their laces entangled
like the spider webs encrusted his emotions.

He sits and waits.
Not for time to heal
but for it to draw the final curtain,
much as the lace on his apartment windows
obstructs all but the brightest sunlight.
Rays which cast only shadows.

Ray Brown