Sickness

I perish for a sign at the breath of life. I’m dizzy

In spirit, pondering the zeal of existence. If only

Death was tomorrow, we would suffer but hours.

But death is a fastidious riddle, laying claim to

Light. Thus, in soreness I grieve, fraught with the

Anguish of Zeus. Tell Asteria the tides are

Forever, and the sky is but the color of infatuation.

Our air is patent in texture. Why have we died

Alone, only to die again? Come to God’s cave.

It’s opalescent therein. Read the murals. They

Speak of visions, and limitless love. But we’re

Fraught with conditions, and we love with merit.

Thus, love is similar to a drug: when it wears off,

We search for another dose. But we die forever.