Thinking

I only wish I could write,
as in depth and personable,
as the great authors and poets before my time.

Soliloquy's with heart ache,
served with a side of sass.

A typist of the gods.

An anarchist wordsmith.

Melancholy

The melancholy sights.

An old woman is standing in the middle of the park, watching the squirrels play, while her docile German Shepard sits quietly beside her. 

Neither make a sound. 

Both are taking in the sights and sounds of a surprisingly warm windy day. 

Ordinarily riddled with snow and ice, the park is lush with dull green grass and soft mud.

I wonder, as I watch from my second story window, whether the old woman is sad.

Maybe it’s content that’s washed over them both, or perhaps she knows something I don’t. 

Whatever it is, I envy her. 

Very rarely do I stop and appreciate life moving around me.

These melancholy moments.