Illness
Nov. 03, 2001 ] 4:11 PM
Oh give me armour and give me a sword
To guard me against this trembling demonic presence
That possesses me whole and ensures no respite
And throws open the gates of my flesh
To be a plaything of others in the night;
Anger, sorrow, pain and fear.

Oh cast him out like a poor catch,
And cleanse me in the sea of my salt tears.
But like the unskilled fisherman that I am,
My lines merely drag him in again.
My brain is pickled in his evil grasp.
My body his preserved entity of pain.
wax ] wane
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