It happens out of the blue,
a sickness,
that can’t be known.

Spotted the eyes from sight,
quickness of breath,
blood slowing to give glow to the skin . . .

At a moment now,
it could be best to rest,
but the will to keep moving blocks that.

It is just a little cold.

A cold that will hold one down,
if letting it too,
even for just a pause . . .

Find a place to lay,
breath,
and hope to see again.

Shaking in summer,
but it feels winter,
had come early and harsh.

Doing anything out of the norm;
would only do harm than good,
but again . . .

That will is could be to blame or what holds one up.

The urge to detach what confines one to rest,
in a place,
not of their own!

Fight not to see the spots,
calm the breathing,
flex the fingers and there could be hope.

Even if it just to say goodbye.

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