Let the disease

Sometimes he's a bit scared about his present state ;

could this fit be nothing but an expression of death ?

He dreams about his body on the floor ;

here come the flies knocking at the carrion's door :

"The cure, where's the cure ?

Where are my tablets now ?

The cure, where's the cure ?

Without you I am lost !"

Sometimes he doesn't care enough about the suffering ;

too many pills somewhere on a bedside table still waiting for him…

He seems to sleep but with wide open eyes.

He needs some help, the blood is filling his mouth.

I know you so well, you think you've been dead for years ; inside your head even time has disappeared !

"Lovely disease, just take your ease,

but when you come to take me, please, sculpt my corpse like a masterpiece."