Ill

Pungent sweetness; the love of flies.

White coldness, through moist air,
I did eat! Yesterday or yesteryear.
The steel laments it's drabness;
frigid from the piercing gray.
Next year at this time, the withering may be permanent.

Alone in darkness, I devour he who is my only,
what God gave me, do I myself take.

Doctors say proudly (as they watch me with only fascination),
                                   "Tough times toughen us all."
But who suffers here?
They are but

falsehoods preached from mouths driven by greed.
I am not more than

shriveling petals which the water will not save.