Disease is

The face behind my actions,

The scheme that ruined my wishes,

The rhythm behind my heartbeat.

I’ve got an open grave beckoning me:

A dim and open grave that’s been there
Every time I open my eyes,
Every time I flinch and shudder.

Death is a multi-named conspirator

That watches my every motion.
I am nothing but the doomed prey;
And He is the hunter with the exquisite armory.
Disease is the tickle in my throat

And the distortion in my pulse,
The blur in my vision and the pang in my temple.

Death is the shake in my hands,
The fear in my voice,
And the tear in my eye:
Inevitable and terrifying.