Monday, November 2, 1998


I am nothing.
I have been erased.
In my place:
a carcass barely alive
at all.
The rest of the world,
still wondrously intact,
now echoes down long
thick carpeted halls
dripping with mucous.
As if to melodramatize the point,
upon looking out my window,
I discover a turn of season
with thick phlegmy clouds
only releasing
a small amount of the
once powerful sun.
Sickness is a terrible thing:
no matter what we are
without it,
with it
we are nothing.


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