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.

Amazing. I felt small as I always do, but it wasn't exactly a bad feeling. Small as in part of a greater mechanism. As in amazed by the sky. My heart squeezed the more I look and this feeling settled there spread soaking everything quickly. Melancholy very present now. 'And now the day bleeds into nightfall, and you're not here, to get me through it all-' "You're humming that stupid song again."

"A glimmer of hope, can cause one to choke. The caress of a single tear, cracking glass in a mirror. Steady heartbeat, It's not to keep. Running so fast, away from the past. Silent in the night, sulking away from light. Chills from the cold, arms tight to hold. Sudden despair, this is fair. Mistakes made, choices to trade. Dreamless sleep, in way too deep. Faith falters, drowning waters. Screaming out, No one about. It is finally time, the soul doesn't shine. No more waiting, She is fading."

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

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

“Come on, it’s in the middle of a highway. It’s like a bad omen for the cars who pass by here. It’s like this mural is greeting them like they’re going to die from their journey.” Vernon chuckled and lowered his gaze at me. “Departure doesn’t always mean death, you know that.” I shook my head. “That’s absurd. This is a very sad mural in the middle of the road.” “But it’s still beautiful, isn’t it?” I hesitated then admitted, “Yes-- but still sad.” “Well, there’s this movie called Melancholia. And I quote, “Because of sadness, there is cinema. Because of sadness, there is poetry. Because of sadness, there is music.”

"Every now and then I have these melancholic moments that are not good for my spirit, not right now. Luckily, I’m able to pull myself out of this state of mind thanks to my writing. Pouring my heart into my poems, writing about my pain and my anger, makes me feel good, it purifies my tortured soul. It gives me back the courage that I lose every time the only person left in the world who should love me, treats me as if I were a stranger, an instrument to achieve his goals." Under these words, Shawn saw one of Belle’s poems: If I was a simple candle, capable of gradually melting from one end to the other, without second thoughts, touched by some strange magic, I'd like to see my head melt firs