The reddened sun refuses me its touch;
The moon is cold and does not comfort me.
My heart is weeping; I ask not for much:
Just one more ounce of pain to be released.
The days run thin with weary thoughts of sleep
Yet my weakness keeps my freedom running slow.
The word is not surrender, but defeat
If only I obtain the strength to go.
It seems an act so simple to request
So what deters my motive for a day?
To slip between the dark curtains of death
Would be the ecstasy for which I pray.
I would not suffer one moment longer
If only the ache were but one morsel stronger.