Dear lord, what have I become?
Reduced from a hulking mass
to the pulp in my love's drink
or maybe the orange itself squeezed dry
Ah, but while it all goes down,
smooth for her, it is not my cup
these passing years have changed me
deconstructed me, I am softly withered
The time to reform is upon me
I shall not pass it up, lest I offer my hand
straight to the reaper himself, I think not!
With every pulse there is a reminder to live
The harmonious choose to live committed.
Would it be to love or an asylum for the unstable
I myself have not figured it out
But if you love me, give me space
Copyright © karl marszalowicz