Melancholy Lane.

Exultant beginning, with nothing short of a woebegone ending. 

A cheers raised to the air as I promenade back to my infernal void of words and weeping.

Waving my hand adieu while wearing cheap fabric as skin and a pseudo grimace;

I wouldn't want to cause his conscience any harm.

I amble down the stairs, eye's peering for my rotten pumpkin;

I step inside and ride back down the avenue reluctantly to melancholy lane.

Home again at last -An old forgotten mansion with poems to the cieling,

I slip off my glass slipper, pick up a quill and a dusty bottle of liquor.

"Dear desk, I am home again. Art thou pleased?

I'm filled with the pains of woe to inspire me.

I thought he fair, I thought, he thought, I fair too, but I guess he thought not or if he even thought it at all?

I've ignored the certainty of mine omission, chasing love with an unsigned petition.

Lust is a bitter-sweet dish that tastes of mace; but me, starved for love, I licked the plate.

As Shakespeare once wrote,   

"Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed;

behind, a dream."

-Lust you are the death of me, Farewell.