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.
About Author
