Having a Cold, Quickly Gets Old

I miss the play of outside sunshine, But the nose knows it’s safer to quaver, From going outdoors, acting sanguine. Raw throat, stalled breathing - I’m on the floor, Caused by flying too close to the ceiling. Snow was in store, but I dressed poor, Saw the sights, had too good a time, Impulses attended, weather ignored. Now it’s chicken soup in place of wine. Emotions - once pleasures, now bore; Strength - once coiled rope, now balled twine. Even the apple of my eye seems cored. If mindful for a change - symptoms will decline, As the coughing nasal squeak turns quietly into a roar. Meanwhile, I’ll buy shares in the Kleenex line, I have a hunch - my use of tissue cause prices to soar.