Melancholia

Idle like a lost rusted old silver needle
Meddle in the hallow winds so feeble
Not knowing the answer to the riddle
Feign is this heart daunted by hurdles

Fumble I must have to find my refuge
Daily acting in a survivor subterfuge

Grey meadows beneath my feet humble
Tumble I fear I may if not while away
With sandstorms thro' my soul I tremble
Throes they are, they fade one by a day

Foes they come friends they pretend
Thorns they be, that bleed my woes
Be they worst and vile yet I intend
To trample them beneath my toes