My Melody, My Melancholy

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There’s no crime in craving a little glimmer —

Sanrio softies and stickers added to cart,

like stamps, seashells, and shavings of birch bark.

That’s a soft baby ember swaddled in hearth,

a soul-trinket of your essence unearthed —

ephemeral petals pressed into reminiscence,

iridescent fragments archived in touch.



But the collector’s innocence 

mutates into a coloniser,

and the secret-keeper coils 

into a mountain dragon.

Consumerism turns rabid 

when it parasitises your self-worth —

like insatiable flames defacing and replacing

your soul-husk, placholding the latest upgrade,

a relic doomed to endless efface.


On and on, the ouroboros devours its tail —

gnawing at mimetic longing,

poisoned by humblebrags and cosplaying posts,

hollow rituals to appease God-FOMO,

like Sisyphus rolling up his ten-carat stone.

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