Morose, my verses are, I am told,
Grief is instant, never foretold,
Welled up tears, I don’t let fall.
Instead, on paper, I begin to scrawl.
Sparse have become the joys,
Age and circumstance destroys,
Whatever little seeps through,
Days are strewn in sough.
Impulsively, I should set out,
And, a change bring about,
But as days slowly pass by,
My resolve begins to go awry.