Clean white bright light.
Who's rage do I hear,
Deliberately provoking the night?
Sweet ash of sickness,
Gracefully intertwined,
With a sober fizz of one forgotten.
Why does the itch never stop?
Will the beat go on for always?
What patterns I shall see.
A mirror-box for past and life,
Tinted through a dreamers brush,
In shades of sky and sea,
Slashed across sunny flower fields.
Whirring constant beast companion,
Singing obediently around the world,
Your savage, intangible distance,
Is continually barely tolerated.
And outside this cosy reflection,
Lies the darkness between,
Two trapped mirrors.
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