Despondency rides as a horseman upon the back
Of that creature, melancholy, its hopes drying
Into salt of despair’s nature, truly despairing
In that slough as the scythe rips through all
At head height, a spirit reaping what has grown.
For less hollow touches and happier times,
We try to dispel that rider on their savage horse
Of despond, yet tiresome rolls around that struggle,
Wearying us as we strive to avoid that scythe
Sweeping through all it meets with too sharp an edge.