Poetry

Ill

What ails you, sir?
Your pallor is suddenly ashen
Are you afraid that I might cure you?
That I might feed you passion?
That I might love you
And that you might be well?
Why seek out my remedy
Then set me aside?
Did you not realize that you wish to be ill?
‘Tis simpler… Isn’t it?

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2 thoughts on “Ill”

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