Novel & Cerita Melancholy Poem

I said quietly, placing my head on his chest. "I am ready. I am. Come on. They are just over there." His voice was breaking but he was still struggling to pull it together. I retrieved the flowers from the floor. It was like a whirlpool of melancholy. There was a coldness that was associated with these surroundings. A coldness that made me feel so hollow. I was wearing a few thousand dollar coat, yet I could still feel the chilly air dancing on my skin, freezing me on the inside. The atmosphere was gloomy and morose. It left a dull, lingering ache somewhere in me that I couldn't place and I could feel the part of me that was alive grow dimmer as we approached their headstones.

I recite the poem in my mind: "Since you walked away, how many places have become vain and meaningless, like lights in the day. like lights in the day. Afternoons that were a niche for your image, music in which you always awaited me, words of that time, I will have to break them with my hands. In what hollow will I hide my soul so that it will not see your absence that like a terrible sun, without sunset, shines definitive and merciless? Your absence surrounds me like a rope around my throat,

' "Wind and willow, come take me back to where the worlds meet, and bring me fractured to the sea, let my soul carry me to places and shores where my eyes will never see. Tarry me there and everwhere, let my soul search forever, never resting, always yearning, broken and dreaming of the things I'll never have. Rain and snow, wash from me the powers within me and keep me ever wanting, always needing something more, for my soul is lost in yonder waters. Darkness over light, never ceasing and always growing, take me further into your embrace, hiding and holding all dear to me, broken like shards of glass. Never gather unto me, powers and pleasures of this world. Hide from me the treasures of m

The moon's reflection danced upon the surface, mirroring the tangled mess of my thoughts and heartache. Lost in my own sea of sorrow, I allowed myself to be consumed by the darkness. The minutes stretched into hours, and still, I remained submerged in the water, lost in contemplation. The moon continued to cast its soft glow upon the scene, its silent presence offering a semblance of solace in the midst of my despair.

"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

The whole book was in Russian but one of the poems had writing in the outer margin: I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light. In sorrow, when I felt unwell, Caught in the bustle, in a daze, I fell under your voice’s spell And dreamt the features of your face. Years passed and gales had dispelled My former hopes, and in those days, I lost your voice’s sacred spell, The holy features of your face. Detained in darkness, isolation,

When cities wear around their necksthe seethe of the cold, traffic slowsto the gutter the clambering freeze,and half a heart this rain touches our skin,mere stains we believe home recollectsmemories, drops of names unclutteringsuspiciously in the melting shadow,over the ice age of our singular breath,surface of things revives in the darkwhat is lost from a deep gorge of sleep,seconds on the side of water, more hope than hiding, beyond the evening light--there is a rustle of a long sworn word,a lonely song at the night’s heels, oh—but were you there to hear it?

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.

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

“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.”