I feel a lump in my throat
that rolls its way into my head.
It's true, a rolling stone gathers no moss;
it gathers steam instead—
crushing optimism, beauty, compassion,
or rather, their memory.
If I could work up the strength to lift it, this lump,
If I could find the words to summon up a Spell of Motivation
to lift it, this lump,
and if I peer underneath,
what will I find?
Dreams, drawing their last breath, squelched black and blue
Silver linings fading into an indifferent white, or perhaps, of no particular hue
Curiosity oozing into a vagueness I cannot put a finger on—
like the colour mediumspringgreen
Gravity befalls all things—even lumps
It settles down, deep into my brain; if only it had been in my fickle heart
The signal turns a relentless green
I must move carrying my burden
I must not stop to peer beneath again
I must not find out what is the color of regret.