I have fallen irrevocably and unstoppably,
Into the arms of a bleak melancholia called,
Only hope, each day it plagues me offering what I want,
Yet never once delivering on its fine promises.
Do not mistake me, good things happen in my life even,
Sometimes, things which I desire or hope for, this however,
Is never supplied by hope, but only by other means,
Such means being usually, not within my power to change.
Into the arms of this bleak melancholia called,
Hope or perhaps also longing, maybe even desire,
I now rush, though I know that with each step I damn myself,
It is no longer about what is good or pleasant, or best,
But rather only about that illusion and what it might be,
Even as I write these words and think of you I hope still.
Though that which I can hope for may well never truly be,
I am trapped, limitlessly by this, a fly in amber.