Lugubrious

We were walking, my friend with the starry eyes and a smile fuller than the milky way.

I, with a motion-sensor light, so bright when the cosmos drapes round my shoulders,

Such night when Kronos scrapes his talons against the clock that stops my day.

“Isn’t lugubrious a funny word?”, voice dripping cheer and guerilla gear, does she know fear?

“It’s funny that such a funny sounding word is used to describe sadness” and I start to think so quickly, a frightening madness, of the poison of irony, of what small ocean separates me and such a word.

“I heard it from my friend Phil” and no traverse of trepidation dances the tiles of my thoughts, the clarity born of a chill.

No, my brain begins to fill with the infinitesimal optimism the world badges on my chest.

An officer of smiles and making possible impossible quests.

“If you get high, I want to see it. You’re such happy person it would be hilarious”, said she. 

Is that what they see? Could she really be serious? 

I don’t dip my toes in the water because if I slip, I will drown as surely as the sun continues to rise, the sweet kind of demise I only rarely fantasize.

It’s strange that some things that seem funny defy their paints. Could you really describe a sad sight as lugubrious without a mouth tight, a smile that fights, at such a funny word?