Melancholy Wings Poem by Mark Heathcote

Spirit bland as black ink
Am I a victim of my own melancholic wings?
That is? Am I smudged and spreading,
That my darling - won't work…

Darling all I read is your headlines…
Am I a victim of my own melancholic, thinking's?
That is smudged and spreading,
Across that psychiatrist folded piece of paper.

'O When my heart he asks me
What do you see?
And I say - I answer
I with you - in loves permanence.
He answers me too!

He says you're the white dove's effervescence
But was I the one who was dreaming
He says you're the white surround
And the in-between too me!

'O doctor is I a victim in this love
Just another blank unmarked scored page
Of music that never really made a sound
One you'd want to hide and cover up?

Spirit bland as black ink
With those bullets dull ache
I have a kite's strings tug of melancholy
Like never before
Where lightening severs the chord
And I'm left smudged and I am gone
A migrating bird up into black skies.