The Anatomy of Melancholy
Somehow you think a past light is brighter
than the candle you hold as you walk
through dark halls, sure somehow
all those chandeliers hanging from the ceiling
are meant for someone besides you,
when all they are waiting for is your candle
applied to them, one by one, waiting
for the anatomy of your melancholy,
past darknesses and chemistry at work,
liars, as critics mostly are, blind believing
your candle is not enough
when in reality it is the beginnings of bonfire,
the flame dancing,
not as a flicker about to be extinguished
but as a fire, a light, eager to be more.
About this poem
The title is blatantly stolen from the site of an otherwise anonymous reader. (yes, I will drop them a note to let them know.) I just saw the words and said “this deserves a poem.” I actually took a screen save picture to remember it by. Months later, here it is. Now that the poem is written, I can delete the photo.
The picture was taken at an architectural salvage place in Kennebunkport, Maine.
Strange how things stick with us.