My poem for today. I'll call it melancholia meets the hounds of spring

This hand crabbed from the key dulled letter
Sits, paleolithic, on the obsolete absolute page
Its grip reduced to a spastic C
Illustrating some text on graphology

Section graphomania, dangers of. Notebooks
Hanself and gretel back to the storied youth
And up to the man long in the tooth
If teeth there are so wrought by seasons

Of unheeded sugar, the slave produce stored
In poisoned plenty – is it not in this plenty I lived?
And how my happiness grieved
To see its imperial thunder mocked and tin

Reduced to a mere tinkle in the heart.
But what of it, weeper? Is it proved
That the grave’s your major stockholder at fifty?
As though out of stiff fingers no nifty

Thought could throw off smothering bone

And you have to face alone, alone.