Dreary fever that runs
Deep in soul,
Is just as clean as murky ponds.

Within myself, I search for light--
Which is dim and demons fond.

Perhaps, the light of night and stars,
Or placid shine of aching moons.

I yearn for light, yet dread what’s bright.
Fearful tunes or lovely gloom?

The heart that thumps beneath the flesh
Is only grand as rotting log.

And light within this soul of mine
Is clear as blood,
And dense as fog.