It’s a disease. Insidious, eating you from the inside out,
That feeling that everything is falling, getting behind,
Like a stack of bills ever growing, the stack of wood
dwindling for the hungry fire, where no warmth is found,
only cold, pulling you in, eating you from the inside out.
It’s a disease that preys on your weaknesses. It knows you,
knows your fears, your pains, and views you clearly when
you can only see through a fog, it cuts you off from any
escape, closing in the thick miasma, until you cannot see
any way out, and you pray, in your weakness, to know peace.
Cold fire, predator, little death by a thousand needles in my skin.
I want to breathe free of the smoke, please, give me my medicine.
Read Moore 