Happiness inhibits
Whatever it inhabits.
It is transient only
And badly served diluted.
But with joy comes that cruel stifling of self,
We are in extant except in pain.
Pleasure is not felt nor savoured,
It is borne.
Our hurt stings, stabs, is shorn,
Rampantly it rips us apart.
The only truth is misery,
The silent weeping of our heart.