idle hands are my own tools

there are many things with which i should be,
grateful and eternally happy,
and yet more things of the converse, at least i feel so;
there are many things i know i love,
not necessarily from them above,
but i feel a yearning for a release from tomorrow.

i cannot emphasise moreso,
the fate i feel hitherto,
that has been untimely and inopportune,
the demise of a non-existent fortune.

it is not, though, that my walk be reticent,
the din of spring with scented incense;
oddly enough, coming six months from winter,
leaving memories with it hither;
even the simplest pleasures do wither,
and leaves us with their worldly tether.

fatalistic, a dark sign may be an omen, something neglect with naught; forebode.
mockery and mayhem of my mind persists - welcome, to my humble abode.