The Human in Supplication, Psalm 13

לַמְנַצֵּחַ, מִזְמוֹר לְדָוִד
ב עַד-אָנָה יְהוָה, תִּשְׁכָּחֵנִי נֶצַח; עַד-אָנָה, תַּסְתִּיר אֶת-פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי
ג עַד-אָנָה אָשִׁית עֵצוֹת, בְּנַפְשִׁי-- יָגוֹן בִּלְבָבִי יוֹמָם;עַד-אָנָה, יָרוּם אֹיְבִי עָלָי
ד הַבִּיטָה עֲנֵנִי, יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי; הָאִירָה עֵינַי, פֶּן-אִישַׁן הַמָּוֶת
ה פֶּן-יֹאמַר אֹיְבִי יְכָלְתִּיו; צָרַי יָגִילוּ, כִּי אֶמּוֹט
ו וַאֲנִי, בְּחַסְדְּךָ בָטַחְתִּי-- יָגֵל לִבִּי, בִּישׁוּעָתֶךָ:אָשִׁירָה לַיהוָה, כִּי גָמַל עָלָי

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For the Leader. A Psalm of David

1. How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
2. How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3. Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4. Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.

Satin, you're pedantic. Get off it.

Pedantry is like sheets of satin.
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?

To happiness

Its taste is sweet;
its passage down loosens the body,
like a draught of mulled wine quaffed in the company of friends.

The feeling -- worries are dulled -- brims about the heart,
but it nigh always'll overflow, roaring down the heart-walls.
What is left is a feeling not brimming, but sickly comfortable,
as if required to settle for a bit less than before.
In general, however, you feel untroubled, yet slightly wanting.

I suppose it's the nature of happiness, its fleeting quality:
the flower wilts because it is beautiful.
Pretty things are decked in fineries ephemeral.
You should know. You can't very well ooo and ahh all day long,
or laugh incessantly.

Do I express sorrow or regret?
No, quite the contrary.
Consider this -- this poem -- an ode.
An ode to happiness; may it forever be in flight.