Plaguing, spitting, black sun cursing,
The way I feel could be death rehearsing,
Its cruel, its real, it never will feel, the way I would like it to do.

 

It rolls it churns, the love only burns,
but you only say its never too late,
“later” you say, but in every way,
its falling, its weaker, it turns.

 

The river of you, never flowing to – only stopping learning to cope,
and I only sit, only look from this pit,
with a wound that is bleeding with hope.

 

So now it is right, should I still try to fight
- I doubt that I could,
Would you say that I should?
Or just laugh in a crazed symphony.

 

Now I must go, I must try not to be so
- so enrapt in a starving life gown,
if you should wonder,
or feel that I’m under,
Too late – this circus left town.

 

1994