MO (6 July 1989 / Upper Hayford, England)

Disheveled, I Look Up At You

Disheveled, I look up at you,
my protector, my muse, my love.
Having cried for days, my eyes
are puffy, red, and glistening
still with the hint of tears.
As I sit on the floor, you
standing over me with your
hand poised to strike, I
can only think of happier
days. A sickness has taken
over your mind. A sickness
created by the hand of man.
Without it, you were beautiful;
with it, a horrifying monster.
All the joy is gone from your
emerald orbs, all of the sparkle
that drew me in. Clouded have
your eyes become, with the Hell
you have created for yourself.
Looking for a hint of the man
I knew before the Drink
took hold, I gaze up at your
lovely face, and you hesitate.

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