Deep in the gloom of this morose winter

I’m feeling melancholic, moody, blue.

Days and nights leave me with nothing but blur,

A dull ache with sharp edges – a spleen flu.

It may not rain outside, still my heart weeps.

It’s made of glass and those tears are like pearls.

With each drop it gets more wet, ‘til it slips;

I cannot hold it, and the hurt unfurls.

When it touches the ground it explodes,

Shatters into a thousand little shards.

This time’s different, not like past episodes,

These small pieces belong in a junkyard.

And I look at myself in the mirror.

What am I left with? Pearls, tears, nothing more.