Sickness onto Death

Alone in my room,
This is the closest to death I have ever been
I am trapped in my cage, the virus whipping me into frenzy.
But the lashings in my lungs I barely feel
Because I am close to dead.
More than dead, I am faceless,
Heartless, Soulless
A statistic. One in Forty Thousand.
The shadow is long and I don’t see the end
The umbra is deep and I don’t feel it’s lightening
I want to be cast out like a criminal
And held like a lover
I hope I am not the only one who feels this way,
And I hope that when it comes, I can find meaning as doves,
At a wedding day.
Freud said liebe und arbeit
Fred said its fighting Fascists
Francis said finding Jesus could save em
Farrakan say its Muhammad
Fidel says it’s in fundacion
It turns and turns,
round like a stone on a stick
And the people on it
Try to get by.
Each comes out with a cry.
Some give
And some take
And each goes back into the ground.
I’m struggling with myself now.
Or my Angel
With the crushing hand not on the hips
But on the lungs
Filling with fluid
And clogging up the air
That rushed out
As the dark unknowing life locks in.

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