Happiness, is a recipe, they say
With ingredients. I chop a carrot and make some
Carrot juice, after a gym workout.
I had made the muscles of my legs
Happy and now it was time
To make my eyes, the rods and the cones,
Sighted through the myopic lens.
Everything I do, is to let the crows
Fly out from my wasted heart.
I finally clean the waste inside,
And hold a sign saying “Not in My Back Yard”
And still, the crows are perching on braches,
Their feathers as black as midnight.
Melancholy, is just the heart’s
Way of knowing, we can live large,
In spite of the crows that linger like a bad
Bout of influenza, and just like
When infected with a stubborn virus,
We call the common cold, only the body really knows
How fast it can rally the troupes,
To the front line of immunity.
