Writing a Happy Poem

I yearn to express the depth of my solitude

yet every verse I craft becomes an amorous missive

addressed to you. To the heavens. To the core of mysterious substance

and the echoes of celestial beacons

amidst the obscurity of the cosmos.

Each poem I pen is

a missive to my sorrow. The demise of my uncles,

my aunt, my sister, and faltered conclusions

and botched commencements.

Like the instance when the woman I adored

wedded another man. I lingered, traversing the labyrinth

of a raven's raucous 3 am insanity,

for countless years — abandoning existence for hope.

Yet, I still yearn for her,

I still behold her emerald gaze beneath the stars,

enumerating fireflies as if they were reminiscences

of our existence in an alternate universe.

I long to convey the sense of belonging

within this realm, but honestly, I perceive myself

afflicted by a pestilence, not of the flesh but of

cognition and spirit.

A plague of idealism, not of sagacity

but of illumination.

I yearn to disclose my happiness

yet then I would be devoid of words to

guide you away from this

fractured desolate realm,

the path into my heart,

a specter-ridden town of my distant past

where dreams have weathered away.