The Magpie

Plath had a point:


"Is there no way out of the mind?"


It will always catch up to you.
Every good day has its 
evil twin. 


Every night, a toxic sadness.


A melancholia we have in our hearts,
some of us wearing it like a heavy
smoking jacket. Our shoulders slumped
with its immense weight.


We are all Atlas in some variation.
Some of us fall down 
some of us can't move
some of us roll the globe away
and give up.


This melancholy lives in us,
a meningitis of the soul
as it clings to our spinal cords
and branches itself
into neurological blooms
that spiral and blossom.


It whirs the stars
and makes the nights
unbearable,
but so short.
The state below consciousness
is never enough
to dispel the taste in your mouth.


Bitter;
orange juice after
the minty freshness
of Crest. 


It is a stone lodged in our throats.
Insoluble. 


It is the ending of an illusion.
When we realize 
it was only a witty game.
Smoke and mirrors
forever.


A melancholy which
gives a new somber meaning
to the Beatles'


"Nothing's gonna change my world".


We sputter across the universe
in a burst of white heat
and are gone.
Forever living with
the burden of man.


Of being.
There is no nonbeing,
no void.


And here lies our fault.