Poetic Melancholy Novels & Stories

I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on my pale, skinny fingers clutched around my knees, “and goes back to reading. But then there’s a tap on his window, and a raven flies in. He asks it questions, and it only answers with one word: ‘nevermore.’ He asks it about Lenore, but still its reply remains the same. “The man asks the raven if he will join Lenore in heaven when he dies, if their souls will be joined once more. At the raven’s answer – you guessed it, ‘nevermore’ – the man says, well, ‘be that our word of parting’ – he wants it to leave. It is a reminder of death, yet it sits, unmoving, watching him as he dissolves further into madness. Death remains with him, as it does with us all.” “G

With that we talked through the night . There are times that you would close your eyes, Those special memories of me will always bring back a smile, Calling my number repeatedly but with no response , If only you could have me back for just a little while you would say ,When I fade like the shadow of moon or like the whispers of the sea, The times of pain and the days of sorrow ,Miss me a little but not too long ,I want no cries, why cry for a soul gone to a better place, a home built with gold ,The time when living feels like dying ,Miss me but let me go , When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me , Miss me but let me go , For this journey is one we all must take , Bury

With that we talked through the night . There are times that you would close your eyes, Those special memories of me will always bring back a smile, Calling my number repeatedly but with no response , If only you could have me back for just a little while you would say ,When I fade like the shadow of moon or like the whispers of the sea, The times of pain and the days of sorrow ,Miss me a little but not too long ,I want no cries, why cry for a soul gone to a better place, a home built with gold ,The time when living feels like dying ,Miss me but let me go , When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me , Miss me but let me go , For this journey is one we all must take , Bury

It is complex, and most difficult to decipher, but I think I am up to it. I recall, to this day, the blessed oblivion the Bréostwylmas brought when they drained me of my panic and terror. I think with longing of the release they might bring from the wretched melancholy that has plagued me ever since. A worse jailer than the Archons, it has robbed me of weeks and months, keeping me paralysed and a prisoner in my own bed. How free of it I could be if I were to offer it up to the Bréostwylmas as a feast. Let them suck the very sadness from the marrow of my bones and bleed me of this bitter, bitter humour.

The crumble sound from the teardrops weren't able to hide the bitterness of the footsteps from the lonely soul—thy dress in pure white. I fathomed that every footsteps were concealed with deep meaning. She was walking and walking...and walking that I could memorized her figure from her long sunrise hair, dancing along with the unsteady wind so as the wavering dry leaves were wandering in the void space. Melancholy and a fainted pictures appeared before my eyes, memories that I didn't want to go back yet I didn't want to forget.

Perhaps she was trying to remain calm or was stunned, but she was staring straight ahead, as if looking at something… Melanie was neither stunned nor calm. She wasn’t sure what word to use to accurately describe what she was feeling right now. If she had to choose a word, it would probably be “desolate”. She felt her heart freezing up. A chill crept up from the bottom of her heart and slowly enveloped it, turning her beating heart into a block of ice. Ice covered her heart that was still struggling against the chill, covering up the excruciating pain that she felt all over, yet she couldn’t even groan…

The signature of the Ash-born. Gods, I should be terrified, but I'm not. Because they’re not attacking. They’re not reaching for me with hungry claws or baring fangs stained with malice. They’re singing. It’s not a melody in any sense I understand. It’s grief made sound, sorrow given voice. A mourning that shreds the air and tears at the fabric of reality itself. The song speaks of loss and abandonment, of being forgotten by the world that created them. The song is unbearable in its’ beauty and pain.

Their happiness is both beautiful and heartbreaking, a mysterious paradox I’m unable to solve. It’s a sharp kind of melancholy, one that neither Pyrra’s taunts nor the visions themselves can fully explain. I’m left alone, again, in the never-ending void, my tears the only proof that for a moment, even in this place of hopelessness, I felt something piercingly, confusingly real.

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.

"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