I feel weak.
I feel like this for weeks on end
And all the time that I could spend on love
I spend on taking love instead.
The dying dead,
They taunt me in my bed and gather
Around my dreams with tiresome chatter and laments:
“When will you join our happy ranks?”
And my past arrives in tears
And delves inside my aching ear with its needles
And coloured threads of past regrets and needless giving,
And all those vows I left unsaid.
And through this mist
I feel your gentle kiss and I can see
Our children laughing. And you put potion in my tea.
It kills the faithless and resurrects the free.
– o –