Melancholy, a figure draped in shadows,
A specter of sorrow, haunting the soul.
With a countenance of muted hues,
And eyes, like storm clouds, brooding and cold.

She walks with a heavy step, burdened and weary,
Silent footsteps echoing through corridors of despair.
Her touch, a gentle chill upon the skin,
Leaving behind a lingering sense of unrest in the air.

In her presence, the world turns sepia,
Colors fade, and laughter loses its charm.
For she is the mistress of melancholy,
And her touch leaves hearts heavy, souls disarmed.

She whispers in the ear of the sleepless,
Caressing their thoughts with her bittersweet song.
Her words, like ethereal tendrils, seep into the mind,
Weaving tales of regret...