Weeds

Sickened by disease; Taken root so deep
Whose tentacles seize; My soul’s infinite sweep

To every crevice and recess; It’s chilling fingers caress
Creeping further still; till I find no rest
Groping silently in night within, to rid what I detest
I find myself dying; In full view of my self no less

So simple it seems; to uproot this fiend
But every time I so deem; lay more before not seen
The hallow cycle of struggle followed by quick succumb
Has made loathesome to me what I’ve become

Just a remnant of days more humbly spent
With pious notions of simple bent
Godly aims bereft of worldly vice
Noble deeds without craft of show or artifice

Less owned and even less desired
Free to run with love’s sweet fire
But love of the world has brought such deep decay
That now I have left but to long and pray
To perhaps be healthy again one day