Melancholick black bile coagulates inside,
Time, it kills; there is no killing time,
Alone a restless minde bleeds the hours,
So too, alone, does innocence sour.
Smiles without smiling; sleep without sleeping,
Re-appearing in light; darkness and weeping,
All sights, all sounds; close-down and dull,
Ghostly eyes disconnected and water-full.
Smothered, and sick, and drunk on lies,
Once opaque skin now dulled with sighs,
This bitter’d, gross incalculable sadness
Is saturnine truth; un-deceiving nor madness.
So drive this blade through my chest,
Glad to be dour but with promise of rest,
Though I’ll never injure; I’ll suffer profane,
Lord knows you deserve the burden of pain.