I can feel the sticky sweat setting

And the cool little blisters on my skin

Well up into the layers of bedding.

My body starts to feel paper thin,

My lungs struggle against each pain filled breath,

And I pray for blessed sleep to take me,

But my prayers are caught in a web of death,

Behind the mucus that no eyes can see.

And when my prayers are finally answered,

I find dreams to be a twisted nightmare.

My personal sanctuary disturbed;

By God, could it be that He did not care?

And as the rot begins to spread within,

I ask “why such torture for minor sin?”


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