The night consumes the day
and the world quiets in its sleep,
leaving me isolated in this dim
sanctuary
with a heavy melancholy painting the
walls.
It comes without much reason,
thoughts of old forgotten loves surface
like zombies rise from a shallow grave:
dead and rotten yet rejuvenated.
But it's less like a zombie invasion
and more like a nightly dig:
when the night calls out to me,
I grab a shovel and go to the
graveyard.
Why do I even bother to dig?
To look for inspiration I've already
ruined,
to find answers I already have,
or does melancholy just feel poetic?
-Zero
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