By Zaphkiel
I Think of Thee when sick is in the air,
Vile rings of vomit that glare
Through the purity of the breeze,
I Think of Thee when my thoughts do seize.
I Think of Thee daily, in the hot wind,
Of the deeds that we sinned,
Then a pain strikes my mind,
I Think of Thee when justification, I cannot find.
I Think of Thee in a bewildering way,
And though positivity, I wish, would stay,
It never does because worry comes forth.
You are on the knife’s edge my sweet,
You are close to one final feet.
You are too close to cliff’s edge to be saved,
But you are far too young now to be graved.
I Think of Thee, my dear
In humble and modest fear.
Because, when I Think of Thee,
My sweet, all things tend to be,
my bee.
And that is why I Think of Thee,
Because with you, things are true,
But to continue this, I cannot do.
You must help yourself,
Or else you’ll fall through.
I Think of Thee, my thoughts do twine and bud,
Around an oak, dead from the moment it awoke.
I Think of Thee in sorrow, in peace, and quiet.
But when I Think of Thee, my mind does riot.