Unhappiness ignores the weather: oblivious
to cold or heat, it feathers its dank nest
with the precipitations of its sins – extrapolates
identity from its attenuated certainties: until its mist
begins to thicken and persist – sufficient to insist
on public shows of its inexorable signature: its
blatant bloodlessness. Intoning odes to all its stolen,
borrowed sorrows – declaiming existential poverty
provides another push of pain – a reason to remain,
exist – as if abysses were a wish against which
it was powerless not to align with, a threat by which
it must define itself, if sadly. However it would end,
it would end badly. Beware the dares and come-ons
from the subtle void, with its evaporative violence.
Find the baleful music in the moan. Unhappiness
does not do well in silence, or alone.