Melancholic Poems Novels & Stories

of the Fourth Verse tried to overwrite her, something else woke up. ​Inside her sat the Memory of the Iron-Blood and the Lament of the Still-World. She had the voices of the machines and the ghosts of the muted within her. ​She didn't play a melody to counter Sterling. She played the "Error." ​She hummed a note that was intentionally off-key. She thought of the time Kael had failed a chapter; she thought of the grief of the "Twins He Never Knew"; she thought of the way a rose smells when it’s rotting.

That they give nothing but destruction. Perhaps, I maybe am. ***** ‘White satin stained with blood as flowers dropped their last petals. Flame, flame, flame… thy rose shall turn to ashes.’ ‘Clash of one’s affirmation, a river of red will flow. Spread across the dry land longing for answers.’ The mansion… raging in chaos. The clattering of swords and deafening bombings wreck the weeping night sky. Everything was starting to collapse no one had ever anticipated this day will come so soon. Not this moment. Not this time.

“If it wasn’t for me, she’ll still be alive…” “It’s not your fault, Hikari…” “You don’t know anything. I don’t want to tell it to anyone. I don’t want to them to leave me because I don’t want to be alone. I can’t… I can’t live alone. It’s killing me… The pain is slowly killing me and I’m scared. I’m so scared!” My tears are like the rain now, it was heavy. I can’t feel the coldness of the wind anymore. I think I became numb again.

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

In which I traveled alone with my car, following a stretch, singularly lugubrious in the countryside, in which finally, It was when the shadows of the night were approaching, I found myself in sight of the melancholy Gardner temple, in which lived a very annoying and irritating lady. What I did not know, but how it happened, but at the first glance I cast from the temple, a feeling of unbearable melancholy invaded my spirit. When I say that it was unbearable, and that was the sensation that was not relieved by any of those half-pleasurable feelings, because they were poetic, with which the spirit that wandered the street usually absorbs even natural images to make them as if they were memori

The next day, The morning unfurled its light, yet its embrace felt cold and distant, a reflection of the melancholy that enveloped my being. Every moment carried the weight of unspoken sorrows, dragging me deeper into a sea of muted emotions. I couldn't take another morning without her beside me. The world outside moved in a somber dance, its colors dulled by the shadow of my desolation. Even the gentle rustle of leaves seemed to whisper tales of sadness, echoing the ache that resided within.

Nor do the heedless in the throng, One thought beyond the morrow give, They court the feast, the dance, the song, Nor think how short their time to live. The heart that bears deep sorrow’s trace, What earthly comfort can console, It drags a dull and lengthened pace, ‘Till friendly death its woes enroll. The sunken cheek, the humid eyes, E’en better than the tongue can tell; In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies, Where memory’s rankling traces dwell.The rising tear, the stifled sigh, A mind but ill at ease display, Like blackening clouds in a stormy sky, Where fiercely vivid play. Thus when souls’ energy is dead, When sorrow dims each earthly view, When every fairy, hope is fled, We bid the un

"Death is before me today: like the recovery of a sick man, like going forth into a garden after sickness. Death is before me today: like the odour of myrrh, like sitting under a sail in a good wind. Death is before me today: like the course of a stream; like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house. Death is before me today: like the home that a man longs to see, after years spent as a captive."

Through the hedges darkly buffeted by the feral state of gravity, of the unspeakable, its melancholy birds preening under the sun caught in the breath of a revelation: summer lying, you. We cannot suspect the horses running to be like the past harnessed still to what’s not fading away; crisp hellos are a theory of disembodied music, gospel at times, your blues most of the time. Let me hold the perfect hand, white, blinding, lifted high

The evening breeze was gentle, carrying the fresh scent of early summer plants growing. In the courtyard below, children laughed and ran around. Elderly residents strolled leisurely. Life flowed on in its most ordinary and solid form. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air. The three months after Arya's death, which had been full of her family's scheming, were like a long, oppressive nightmare. Thankfully, I had woken up. Wounds would scab over, pain would fade, and the lessons I learned would stay with me, making me stronger and wiser going forward. Night fell, and the city lights came on. I went back inside and turned on the lights. Warm illumination instantly filled the ent