The Sick

Wicker houses catch smoke from uptown dancers And heels flare out to distant isles And if you were deserted What companion would you emerge with? It's survival It means rage subsides when some Wicked grin prevails And that anger melts down In boiling pots The golden, heart-shaped cancer You call 'I' I never And shall never be that evil Even if the sons of my enemies Lift the veil long enough For me to see their naughty fingers Purchasing all I own With nary a cent to pay for it For I am withered enough Callous enough Branded all over Too many times to begrudge the sick For being sick And the well for being bountiful I am the old tree's splintered bough And you are him Sending her Swiftly To me