Sickness is the surest way
to feel like grunge, not the best,
and still the Muse asks her way
from the artist when flesh is weak.
Fever brings a wicked heat
felt inside, not in the room.
Warmth is followed by the chills,
fair body, what do you seek?
Sleep was what I did last night,
yet now I feel as if woke
all hours of the twilight time
as my body demands rest once more.
My voice it speaks, not with words,
coughs instead are my verbs.
When can I become the mute,
escape from the boom of this bark?
I'll take my leave, drink the syrup,
filled with medicine to subdue
the grunge felt down in my bones,
ask the Muse if my work is done.
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160310.