I have a small twitch inside of my brain,
A terribly tricky and ticklish tick.
A thing in itself that is quite insane;
A thing in itself that is truly sick.
It crawls and it slithers, it finds its way;
It screeches aloud and calls me by name.
A sound like madness, like death, like decay,
It fills me with comfort covered in shame.
Yet in the darkness within my own mind,
There grows a light with a gentle fierce air.
It covers the twitch with a love refined,
So the twitch and the tick sleep unaware.
There is a hope within discourse divine,
That sorrow’s terror can be redefined.