Make A Run

Mellow heart, mellow heart,
Memories of where upon you start;
Parts of you that never part,
Stabbed to death by a bleeding dart.

But it never dies, it had not,
Just like any ghost of that sort;
It drains you of whatever you have got,
Dipping you in trouble, boiling hot.

So run, flee, jump out of it,
So fly, spin, dance a little bit;
Life may perhaps be a better fit,
Once you pepper it with some wit.

Wits make life a satire and comedy,
Happy men are ones blinded by fantasy;
Inspirations run wild like a remedy,
Life is after all about lunacy.

Poetry came about in response to a friend's poem.