Reflections on melancholy

Sitting here in the green grass

Bush, a persistent sense of sad

Through my bones yet not

Knowing what washes these

Feelings to my shore.

Is it the love I give out to the

World, in hope, that becomes

Disappeared in mute silence 

Amongst the busy and the

Jealous and the subdued?

Or is it Heart bruised from 

Events that sit beyond me yet

Ripple through me in troughs

Of feeling and peaks of

Blissful catatonia?

Is it the forgotten times, 

All the times where

My gifts are not received

And so lay rotting in the

Market stall, cut price sale?

Or is it me invisible,

Presumed to be always 

And forever as a given, 

Neither wanting nor needing,

And able to tend to myself?

And perhaps it's all these,

And none, because

Maybe, just maybe, this 

feeling is a gift washing

Up on my shore.

For ultimately my light is not

Dimmed for lack of those 

Who might see it, 

The drum of my Soul 

Beats its rhythm even if

Nobody hears it

This ripening fruit is borne

For the whole world even if 

None will taste it.

Am I, then, flotsam in a

Cruel and uncaring Sea,

Forever diminished by the

Blows and never valued.

Or am I a unique expression

Of the created Infinite

A being that sits still, at

Ease shining Selfless Love.