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.