“In the dead of the night”, as always the story began,
Of the pricks on my arm, tubes in my veins.
The nights are the hardest because I sleep through the day,
Much of life I have not lived, much of it I cannot phantom.
They buck me down, strapped to the bed,
My wrists hurt and my pillow is my coffin.
My ankles are heavy, my toes almost blue,
“Hold tight!” a yell, as it always comes.
When was the first time it began, I remember not,
But the ink on my skin’s faded, my hand crumbled up.
When will it end, I know not that either,
Maybe the next sun or the after, or the wait will do so.
It finally came, and they bathed me in water lukewarm,
Soap that smelled like cellar, mitts coarse as the sand.
Combed my hair real nice they did, plugged my bum,
I sat on the chair brown and stale, cold swirled up my gut.
All those people staring at me, a familiar pair I meet,
Grey and lovely as they always had been, grey and alive.
A push and it burned the blood running in my veins,
Last look at the grey, then the ceiling, you were right.
Right of all the times you said I was wrong,
Right of all the times you told me I shouldn’t do.
Right then and about… gripped so hard,
On the chair or maybe her hand and we walked, far away.
Away into the dead of the night,
Where there was fear and pain no more.
Into the dark where we found peace, and we kissed,
Kissed under the northern lights.