Down inside, the sadness is held off, ever longer.
Clawing within, like a raging fire in my soul,
I'm never sated, because in me, there is a hole.
The wicked wind scours, my skin grows rough,
And something in me has had enough.
I can barely think, through all this pain,
And ethereal voices call out my name.
My limbs are heavy and my speech is course,
Never will I find my disease's source,
I will live always in this wretched, blighted form,
Never to know the tender touch so warm.
No comments:
Post a Comment