Hour 2: Here Am I

Winter blooms in crystalline clouds
like mold on wasted bread
And here am I

breathing shallow gales of ice
which freeze my lungs in place
And here am I, alone

Spring comes on, that lying harlot
like paint on rotted wood
And here am I

choking on her putrid perfume
which closes up my throat
And here am I, again

Summer festers, moist and burning
like sepsis in some fevered flesh
And here am I

suffering with dizzy sickness
which robs my mind of sense
And here am I, afraid

Autumn pools like clotted blood
a wound of changing colours
And here am I

stagnant, stale, and scabbing over
sealing shut my lips
And here am I, again, again

Alone, afraid, again

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