Down with the Sickness

An inferno races through my veins,
my body aches,
my head pounding with pain.

My throat is sandpapery
and dull
my voice a soft, croaky whisper.
It hurts to breathe.

I hack and shake into the silence,
nothing coming up,
to relieve me from this pain,
and the itching in my throat.

Chills run up my spine,
the fever is growing.

I lounge in misery,(it hurts)
nothing inside me free from pain,
I can feel
the blood dripping down my
throat.

The skin
on my fingers is beginning to peel off,
from the dryness, I think.

My eyes burn,
when I close them there is nothing
but the soft pink
(silent)with red veins pumping
heat through my body.

I can feel the war,
it's in my throat and lungs;
as the virus seeks to overtake me.

I need to sleep off the sickness,
but sleep will not come.
I toss restlessly,
first too hot,
then too cold.

I drink to quench the fire,
but it seems to only feed it.
I am drying up in the flames.

Nasuea spins in my stomach,
my neck creaks as I lower it,
only for nothing to come up.

I don't think I'll die.

The delirium is setting in,
grey matter is boiling,
I can feel it in my fingertips.
I sing softly,
I think.

Everything is blurred, now,
I cannot write much loner.

I feel something
in my throat, (the disease)
and it aches slightly.

My eyes are now heavy, heavier than before,
perhaps
now I can sleep.
(at last)