Melancholy is the night when you disengage and turn towards the finale of life’s page, a story for all the ages. A factor of life to go through those stages from preservation to devotion eternal without any means of salvation. Always searching for that final fragment of satisfaction – to see a face on a daily basis – for a minute or an hour – regardless of how wasteful it may be, such a face of exquisite beauty brings a perculiar harmony.
Melancholy is the night when the unsung hero takes flight, the critics claim the pitch is too low to register for it shall never hit a measure of ten or more. Tis better to introduce one with the ability to raise the floor and gain worthy applause. Alas this is not some requiem mass where all are beckoned by the tolling of a bell signaling time as it passes.
Melancholy is the night when an unstoppable force with no remorse raises all to cause discourse. It’s a battle to preserve and reserve before the sun awakens from slumbers once more, beckoning the moon and stars to flee as the night is frighten away.
Melancholy is the night when silence conquers and aid is dissolved in some chaotic fray. And tonight of all nights more than ever the low registers are needed, the resolution from a revolution ignited to serve what is truly deserved in the wake of an everlasting day.