Peregrine,
I've become a skeleton of my former self.
Is there any use in begging for tenderness?
Hanging in suspense while a world marches on.
Even an intercessor turns away from this
hairless body.
Peregrine,
I've become a shadow of my former self.
Withering in winter and as this sun sets
I still have a fear that is tumbling
and tumbling in my stomach.
And as this disease devours my body
this fear consumes my soul.