𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑘.
I know,
But does my sickness
Eat me from the inside?
Does it,
Define me?
...
Yes.
Very much.
What are you going to do about it?

Beneath the sallow,
At break of the night
He waits,
The moonlight dusted upon his pale
Fickle
Skin
Periodically, of course
For no longer than a second
Does the mark of silvery light
Linger in one place,
Most of it pushed aside
By the gambolling tears of green
Wept by the weathered
Old
Sallow’s skeleton grown up into the sky.

The fear
in the eyes of the weak
cavorts As if
it was the light Of a slowly
Melting candle
cast Against a wall,
ropes Tug gently
and the Bedroom Megalomaniac
Waits patiently
for the Deer
to collapse.