Thursday, August 17, 2017

Soliloquy of the Sick

Eyes heavy with heat the light hurts
the chest expanding to shortness
of breath,

I raise my hand to touch
hallucination of healthin a
different world, the ache isn't
recurrent.


Phlegm is but another pragmatic
scheme of disposal.

Sweat the symphony of skin,
Sweat the song of substance,
Sweat the supreme shade of
solitude.

You pop a pill and, like the painful
globes that they are, close your
eyes

And dream of her salve-laden
hand.

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