Rhyming reasons

 

 

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.