My Lasting Minutes

It begins with a hush in the back of the mind,  
a softening focus, a gaze left behind.  
The world loses sharpness, the colours turn pale  
as melancholy lifts its translucent veil.

It draws you in gently with fragments of grace—  
old songs in the distance, a once-familiar face.  
The thoughts start their turning in slow, measured time,  
creating small eddies of rhythm and rhyme.

Around and around like the wind in the eaves,  
it gathers the pieces of fallen gold leaves  
that spiral in patterns both random and right,  
descending through shadow toward oncoming night.

Deeper it carries the melanchologist down  
through corridors carved from a permanent frown,  
where questions repeat in an infinite queue  
and answers dissolve into “what can you do?”

The spiral has neither beginning nor floor,  
it tightens its circles and hungers for more.  
Yet here in the centre, where motion grows still,  
the melanchologist spirals—and always will.