Under the weather

I’m an atheist neophyte chanting a chant
in a language foreign to my ears;
My endangered native tongue is
threading along silken placebo fears.

For shallow waters I’ve learned to paint;
isolate in a shade of moss robbery.
To shallow minds I’ve learned to relate,
to creep behind and acquire poverty.

For melancholy has no elevator,
one must climb out through the staircase.
For my shallow life bred wanting more
than a formerly leisurely pace.

But perhaps it is no burden,
perhaps it is a sign,
perhaps true content can only be seen
through these aching eyes.

For the depths of my mind
have served as lukewarm spies.
Poverty was a chilling gift
to distinguish summer skies.

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