This is the bittersweet illness
of which I wish not be healed:
a fever of sighs and sleepless nights,
a frenzy of a heart falling apart.

This torment of mine
to be kept close or afar?
Those hazel eyes
still keeping me awake at night.

What for, may I ask?
What ought to be achieved?
I have no God to replace my Laura,
no policy dearer than my Stella.

Does it take shit to make bliss?
Should I suffer for my art?
Why love, of all things?
The most mocking, least dignified?

A limbo of agony and desire,
Yet what I most dread
is for the flames to die out
and the burn to be forgotten.


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