The Horrors

I press your hand in mine however cautiously
I keep a smile right to myself
And I lapse into the grasp of an overriding obsession
And I get sick as I watch my interests fall into suspension
This winter, so cold, creeping down your arm
Stealth soldiers, creeping around your palm
And it's hard, hard to understand
Little victories won creeping around your hand
The sickness has taken hold through violent, blurted syllables
Escape my mouth under my breath
The voice of pricking dread is whispering insistent in my ear
My paranoia galvanised by your gaze, so austere
This winter, so cold, creeping down your arm
Stealth soldiers, creeping around your palm