Bad Trip

A terrible sickness, Too vague to comprehend, Has entered our dreams. Warning signs emanate, In the pits of our stomachs: Burning sensations that will not relent. I'm moved by your presence As we cling to fading remnants of Beauty. I value small, consoling mercies. I note the gradual collapsing Of every texture & surface. Familiar objects become eerie & obscure. O this unholy condition of atrophy! O this marked change in the weather! The wind is now howling! The black dogs are barking! The stars are dead. Time is disjointed. Time is a terminal disease. As we gaze into the dark mirror, We see ourselves ageing, Moment by moment. The future is a chasm.