XLVII: Bitter Joy

The worst of any pain is joy unshared.

That’s when the cold of life is at its worst.

That’s when the fangs of emptiness are bared.

That’s when the fool’s facade is couched and cursed.

For any pain unshared is pain unspread.

And that’s a joy to know, at least, at that.

But joy’s a thing that ought to be so bled

that every one you see can have a spat.

And if you cannot give it out, you mourn.

For joy is nothing if it’s naught a friend.

And worse than that: a poison fit for scorn,

that stays unless your loneliness can end.

If e’er I find another joy like this,

its daggers drag me down to the abyss.