On a nescient morning; you turned a corner-
-and there I was, four bags of gloom.
One for each week of your joys I'd entomb.
Your zest I'd consume.
I loomed, a dark truth behind your generous smiles
I leaped when they left with your strength to smite.
I dragged a tenuous you away from the light.
A soul-thirsty parasite.
And in the most vulnerable of nights,
I seeped through the cracks of your tattered floor.
Your walls I broke, your dreams I tore.
The nightmare you abhor.
There's no definitude of this anhedonian state.
"If thou live to see like right bereft,
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left."
I bid no precept.
The morning of the fifth week came, and I rose;
You eagerly kissed me goodbye at the door.
I applaud your triumph, but do keep score-
-I promise there's more.