1. February is the saddest month, leaving
all holiness behind us, promising
nothing. No, nothing.
Uncanny, the hushed strain
of this grey sedation.

We are starved by a cluttered landscape
of could've beens. Mind shouts
Should've beens. What has been lost
demands a deeper levy: begins to outweigh
what has been learned.

"Seek truth and be filled," the prophet
proclaims, "Rejoice in suffering, hope
in all circumstances. . ." yet the sun is cold,
its setting unfathomable defeat.
What is good is still good,
but the trees stand unleaved.

2.
It is nice to say
that Truth is better,
more beautiful than happiness,
but the pulse slows, vision dims
when you're no longer talking
but trying to get out of bed
in the middle of the afternoon.

It's like
someone sitting on your chest, except
it really isn't like that at all.
It's like
never waking up from a night of no dreams, except
sometimes you wish that was what it was like.
It's like
the most excruciating and tormenting pain, except
you can't feel anything.
It's like
feeling homesick on a beautiful morning, except
you cannot remember where home is, if there was one.

It's not really like anything.