and that disease is love...*

a twisted torment of fluctuating course
gone before treated
back before recovered
always leaving the bearer
with simply the hows and the whys
and the cottony aftertaste
of the will this ever ends

the tug of the inexplicable
soaring to new heights
on the waxed wings of destruction
breathtaking in its fall
the crash and the burn
beautiful horror swept away
as the cherubs sweep you up for more

as the words form on your lips
at the edge of that sweet precipice
once again consumed by fever
and the acid of uncertainty
gathers and burns your throat
the ground breaking away
under the feet of angels

it's never ending. no cure.
the plunging sickness left
the rotted hole within your gut
and tears the vessels bleeding
from the holes left in your heart
as another wave of hoping
carries you off away, again.

* for juicebox