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The fever reaches in, all that’s left becoming engulfed.
Will torrid suffering be what kills, or be the hand that drags one from his hope?

Hate leaves one's existence void.
The sad suffocation of joy.

Typhoid and swans; everything shares a source.
The fever of the dawn.

When words fall decrepit on the ear, distant is one’s heart to the call.
The twilight sings an elegy, dissolves, and disappears in the dust.

Hate - the pale desertion of self-reward.
A finite struggle to kill the foe.
The endless torture repeats ad libitum, ever downward.

Hate leaves one's existence void.
The sad suffocation of joy.

Typhoid and swans; everything shares a source.
The fever of the dawn.

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