Despond – a poem

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.



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