We are stricken by this disease,
An affliction slowly burning;
It is the convulsions of a soul
Dissolving swiftly into madness.
We are dying, my love,
From a plauge we have created,
From an end easily avoided,
But we barrel on all the same.
We are travelers, wanderers,
Despondent citizens of chance.
We are liars and heretics
And yet we attempt only the truth.
We are murderers of truth,
Killers of freedom,
And yet neither I miss greatly.
We squander our dreams,
Poison our lips,
And yet it's sweetness is worth any demise.
But now they say, my love,
They have found a cure for our ailment.
A surgery, so to speak,
Of mind, body, and soul.
But can I really discard this
Can I throw this away with a single
Thought of treachery?
An incision would reveal resistent flesh
And a body in no need for a cure.
Can't they understand
We need nothing?
Send away this antidote,
This cure you have promised...
I much rather enjoy the poison.