I hear a dirge of birds
Sweeping down like windstorms
raising doubts and dust
as it whoosh along.

Can feel depths of dissatisfaction
Hanging loosely on every note
Dropping to a descendo 
itching my ears
piercing my spines
with the sweet pain that tags along
when one swallows a honey bee
and get stung in the stomach.

But vultures don't sing
How then doth this graveyard exude such sweet sadness
So much it satisfies my soul with extreme intensity?
So much I feel I've found home
in a city of dry bones?

I know why melancholy 
And I are a synonym
If cut your chains, you free yourself.
If you cut your roots, you die.
I did both and I know not from whence I come,
Where I am,
And where I planned to go.

- Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu