I am deeply and madly ill
With my mind in a second world,
Where I lament so often as
I drink the snake’s venom
Bottle after bottle, and my
Wrists full of icy lines that are
Leaking massive heat.
I feel so deathly ill, as I
Lie awake on my own coffin,
Holding my purring fur ball
Into my arms, and
Resuming to lament about suicide
Under the heated rain.
I needed to be healed;
Alas, I have no one to be
My bandage,
My medicine,
My painkilling drug.
I lie awake day and night
Under my insomnia,
Waiting for you to heal my wounds.
The waiting is so long,
I suddenly went to the dark abyss.
But then…
There you are:
Your dark eyes in depth,
Your cloak of the Reaper concealing, and
Your large beak stroking my cheek.
I wonder to myself,
Are you really my guardian opiate?
Are you my tourniquet? Or
Are you my love?
Is it the last? Is it really you?
Are you here to finally heal me
With your potion under your beak?
Your silence says many words to me
As you gaze through my teary windows.
Let me touch your hand and
Allow me to kiss you under your beak
While I taste your heroin and absinthe,
So I’ll know that this is no dream.
By the time I get out of this abyss,
I’ll know that you’ll heal me
From this deadly illness of lament
And soon…
Our love will lasciviously be born,
Even though I don’t know you
Underneath your eerie mask.