The state of sorrow is much complex;
Vivid, vibrant, and enigmatic,
Multi-layered, acute and profound;
If anything can be absolute,
It is anguish, distress and sadness.
Joy pales in comparison;
A superficial moment captured
With an agitated vulnerability;
Happiness is ephemeral, destructible.
Despair is eternal;
It enhances the charm
Of the subject it affects;
Adding strength to the character,
Are the tears held back
And not the smiles flashed.
No poet can do justice
To human emotion if he
Does not talk of
Aching hearts and bruised souls.
There is more to talk about
Dead winters and falling leaves
Than green summers and delightful springs.
What worth is the life that has not
Cried for love, nor lost a dear possession;
If you have not fallen off a swing,
Or been hurt by someone near;
If you have not failed a test that mattered
Nor cherished an unfulfilled dream
You still have miles to go…
In a perverse way, that joy does not,
Sorrow completes our existence.
It consummates the cycle of life -
Satiating the deep gorges
That beatitude leaves behind…