060408A
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In the solitude of looking,
not knowing for what,
not finding becomes a habit
that seems too hard to give up.
Having left behind any religion,
finding it only gets in the way.
Wanting a taste of some freedom,
but cannot pay her price.
There is nostalgia in many things,
that were meant to be shared.
It is something like tea and oranges,
when there is no one really there.
There is no real difference,
along the real or the virtual street.
Except that on one they cannot see you
and on the other they forget your face.
I thought I saw you wanting me,
seems that was only my solitary dream.
I do not expect I will see you again,
and I never really know your name.
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060408B
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I am ill with fever,
and cannot sleep tonight.
There is no beauty
to cure me.
It is the kind of fever
that never really breaks.
It is not quite death,
and not quite life.
It is like being widowed,
without ever being wed.
I am ill with fever,
and cannot sleep tonight.
It is the kind of sickness
that sends out its regrets.
No one there offers any cure,
and the mixtures are never right.
It is a lone wolf driven out
to howling at the moon.
It is a broken line
and a ruined song.
I am ill with fever,
and cannot sleep tonight.
You never really knew
how much I wanted you.
You are always someone else,
and I am always wanting.
It is the mess we make,
that pills and scalpels cannot cure.
I feel as out of place
as a corpse out of its coffin.
I am ill with fever,
and cannot sleep tonight.
All that there is to gather in,
are failed and damaged moments.
My heart is abandoned,
as if it were a ticking bomb.
They mocked at my wounds
and urged me to murder Cupid.
The apothecaries laughed,
offering a one percent solution.
I am ill with fever,
and cannot sleep tonight.
Wi****ng it worse, to imagine
a delusion of beauty.
You could become feverish too,
making me look beautiful.
It does not matter who you are,
if you make me want your beauty.
Crowds, idleness and endless work
make me so feverish for beauty.
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