Sickness: The Martyrdom of Saint Jude
The sickness comes again,
another wave.
My belongings plundered.
A refuse sack ruptured on an early grave.
I'll pick up the toys now.
Don't want to go to bed – not tired yet.
I need another oncologist to take a fresher look.
I will clean my teeth now,
comb my hair,
will tidy my room,
it's not fair,
please leave the TV on,
I'll go to bed soon.
Hell bent for leather,
horsemen are inside now, they'll
destroy the room.
The panic is rising.
Breaking open the head.
Heavy hooves clatter on china cups and plates.
Panic – sickness – dread.
Why did I let go of the balloon?
My most uncomfortable moments so far.
As I faced the mushroom.
As it ransacked the library.