Where are all of my friends?
They all died.
I have no chair on which to sit.
The walls slither like butter.
I try to walk on the floor of water.
My table cannot hold my book.
My friends went to make money.
They supervise armies stocked with bears.
They run fast limos through the dark.
They dance in pretty bedspreads of gold.
No pen to grab and fingers are straw.
Porridge and chili spill from my mouth.
My world is brown with roaches.
My mind softens until my skull is empty.
My friends know of my disease.
They don’t run; they toss me away.
They are beautiful and they are loved.
They are good enough to avoid the evil.
My friends are in the beautiful world.
It is I who is dead, fully melted to evil.