The channels of the illness are a mob of leeches
Cursed this child is to die.
The innocence and placidness lost forever in the sea of the Damned
My conscience won’t allow it.

I must find a Cure.

My mind stretches to all knowledge perceptible
Still I find nothing.
But I can’t give up
My conscience won’t allow it.

I must find a Cure.

The synthetic hounds of Hell present a small endowment
A sole hope in a river of despair.
Or is it just another vex within my misery?
My conscience won’t allow it.

I must find a Cure.

I have grasped a remedial concentrate to heal these wounds
Both his and mine.
Though taken at intervals, the rose still flourishes.
Swinging by the sun and the moon.
I study the sickness planning my next attack
Often returning to the red monsters for assistance.
And though I have yet to unearth luck
I strive to keep us both alive.
This child cannot die.
My conscience won’t allow it.

I will find a Cure.