What It Brings, For What It's Worth

The Illness creeps up this night
For the past weekandmonthandyear
This decade (as it was inevitable so, so long ago)
It sounds like a drop of water, or sweat
It's salty and must be bitter
I'm told
But I recognize The Illness in the way it feels
That slick touch of envy and the sharp burn of denial
Quixotic eroticism in the face of Danger
That triumphantly waves,
Reflected back from a water of bile
As it brandishes a face of guilt

The Illness is at a front
Without explanation or apology
It could be greed or conscience or forgetfulness or fun
But the thrill no longer serves
As there was no thrill and it never appeared in any other form
So there must be that lavish hint of Danger in the air
With thick, soured perfumes
On which I choke
But all that is seen is laughter
Downwardly drowning
To skeletal bliss.