My pain, so real,
in every vein of mine,
like the life blood,
passed to me from my mother;
is it blood, or is it brine ?
For the water of my eyes,
salty, tangy to the tongue.
These are but ruby red drops
turned into brine.
This churning in the pitless cavern
into which aches coil up,
then spring on me unbidden-
they don't choose the right time.
My pain is a democracy
anarchy ruins the state of my mind.
All happiness, fleeting,
will soon take flight.
In pain, this body thrives
and makes to float away with me,
when, as a ton of iron, it drags me down
to the bed of the sea.
Finally, I'm alive.
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