Sickness comes at interludes, when
light burns brighter than
sun stars, when Anger dashes in
to catch the aftermath.
We battle for the scenery.
Touching base, both reaching for
the flag, for proclamation.
It is mine. This sickness is mine
to water or see to wilt.
I find no fault in either,
both are stars of polar regions,
imploding a billion light years away
from me. I will awake with sweaty palms,
the enemy dripping down my back.
I sit in the night, like a sauna,
saluting the grace of the Gods
for keeping what is meant for the skies
quietly away from these hands.
My medicine will come clockwise, sneaking up
on me, on little twinkling toes.
I never miss this time because there is no
better place to live or to die.