Sick
Slowly, sanity slips through fever-laced dreams.
Layer by layer, I fall deeper into unknown rabbit holes.
What was up is now down.
Colours melt, dripping from the night skies,
Pouring onto my fracturing cranium.
Hallucinating, I walk upon a fragile field of wilting roses.
As each petal dies, so does another memory in my delicate mind,
Leaving behind nothing but specks of dust floating within empty space.
It's getting harder to tell if I'm still alive in this nightmarish scene.
Beads of sweat mix with humid navy breezes sweeping across me.
My breath hangs precariously all around.
Voices trying to wake me grow fainter,
Disappearing amongst delusions.
Ties that bind my soul eroding,
I feel my flesh burning, puckering.
The illness wraps its tentacles tighter around me,
Refusing to let go, dragging me six feet under.
As the ground cracks open, the faint thread finally snaps.
No longer can my soul return to my mortal coil;
It will be left to rot among the foxtail and weeds,
Consumed by Death's cursed grasp.
Copyright © Sara Jama | Year Posted 2025
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