Sicker Age
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009


I'm sick of this
I've listened to you for twelve hours
Tell me how to bend this disease

He told me to strain
He told me to use all my power
And I helped him with ease

Still sickness spreads
It fills my lungs as if it were ash
I still my rage

My rash benevolent
It bows down
The superior forces we all hold true

Try to storm
The eye with liason
Less the world

Be reborn
Concern only his son
Stress the word

Of importance