I suppose I am happy, as well. Across the myriad of sadness, An unsorted kaleidoscope of fickleness, Amidst the converged painful thoughts and memories, I am doomed, nay, destined to embrace, My imbibed happiness. For however long it may be, Once or twice, or just sometimes.
If it weren’t for the loss of accuracy, An exact equivalence for what is what, A mere loss of definition, I would have certainly known, Rather than suppose, Or pry and wonder.
Nevertheless, today, now, here – I reckon I am in vigour. In undaunted revere. For I can see beyond the despair. [For now, perhaps]
We tend to suppose our sadness, For we live in the wrong subsistence, From the life, we have always craved, The kind we were deprived – We are deemed to have supposed, That we are truly sad.
Living beneath the cathartic influence, Wallowing in feigned caricature, We, certainly, suppose Our sadness, not the bliss. The agony, not the trance.
Then, again, we wonder.
What is happiness, anyway? Is it a mere state? Or a reversed alternate? An alternate we haven’t yet met, Or confronted? Is it devoid of pain? Or is it a life with no fear? Is it, perhaps, a way to condone, The miserable trifle we live in? Or a struggle to console, Our troubled soul?
If it wasn’t for imagined reality, This unconquered world of felicity, Could we have to borne our sadness? If it wasn’t for the hope of better days, Could we have held on to the absurdities?
Whether we denote a definition For the true state of elation, Whether true enchantment Lies in the next exit, If it wasn’t for this expectation, The assured belief of better times, How else would we have settled for our sadness? Our collective griefs? And the desolate fry of our days?
We suppose we are sad, To forfeit the weight of the blue ballad, To transcend beyond the horizon, Far better reality than we have condoned.
Unabridged Manuscripts 