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I sit with a beautiful song.

I seeth, I'm angry that I've cared too long,

And get trapped little by little on

The fangs of your formulations.

.

I sit with a beautiful song,

Known that I've been ugly,

But if I've been ugly,

Then I too, can be a heart-shaped

Hole,

In the ceiling of your cold.

.

I flick the resentaments of your cigarettes,

All this hate, myself, burnt onto my wrist.

I hated myself, I hated it all,

I hated the florid world

I hated my own infinities,

Because you didn't wrap them

In your meagre love.

.

I'm not a whale,

I'm a sheer ray stinging the soft membrane of your system of barbs.

.

My sickness so to speak was a frame on the world,

In which there could be spirit, and love.

.

My sickness is the little window in the castle, in which you see a colourful flash of light.

.

Rapunzel, and the knight are seen through the frame, seated strange and calm with their beverages.

.

.

Isaac