It is time
To wash out the sickness
From all robes and bedsheets
It comes
In ribbons of bright colours

Red for fresh blood
Purple for nausea
Pink for pain
And sky blue for vertigo

In patterns from a distant land
Where they grow fuit
Under the blistering sun

Figs and peaches
Soft flesh
And sweet cannibalism.

It is time
To slip into oblivion
Between the sheets
That are sticky anew.