Like the weather
Sometimes calm and steady
And sometimes rough and violent.
That thing fights him
With nature’s strength
And hurts the people he loves.
He fights it as a fiend,
But this fiend has been a friend from infancy.
Always making him cherish the illusion
That those he loves be dizzied with delusion.
It blurs his vision,
And paints his climax much gloomier.
If only tears; would be the precipitous
Effect of his overwhelming emotion
And rinse his pain at times.
If only the chagrin disposition were
Seen for what it is –