Melancholy Woman by Picasso

The stillness overcomes me.
It comes in waves, over weeks.
There’s a low that’s ever too low.
So low. Solo. So slow.

The sun hangs low in the sky,
And sets too soon.
There’s a…
There’s a…
It doesn’t come.
It won’t come.
It doesn’t move.
I don’t move.

So still.
Do things tomorrow. There’s no energy today.
Sit still, I drain, I pour, the soul sinks from me.
Uncleft, the soul roams, whilst I remain,
A machine.

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