Being sick

is like being a sapling

in the middle of a fog.

The fog’s tendrils encircling

the leaves, bark, branches.

Choking the pores

as it tries to breathe,

sinking into its skin

as it weighs down the branches,

shutting its eyes

as the smeary wisps settle into its body.

 

Rain drizzles,

the wet iciness coating

the dying sapling.

The branches

scratch the soil.

The leaves curl,

wilting.

 

The sapling sighs,

waiting for the sun to come,

the fog is dissipate,

the sickness to leave.

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