Cough up.
I’m trying to send you flowers
but you never listen.
Your eyes blind your ears,
and your taste isn’t so hot either.
The strength in your fingers
is half-invalid
and your breathing is not assured.


It’s time to create a miracle,
like wine that cannot be seen but heard;
in the cataract concerts of your mind
let your frightened heart unwind
so your soul can feel more at ease
in the midst of such suffering ~
to call this angel.

A creeping lethargy has hold of me.
It talks to me from the overseas moon,
establishes a link through my moods
with undying shadow monoliths of gloom ~
they’d cut my heart right out
and use it up way too soon.