The ants march on my brain all day,
knowing only to walk as time
continues to bear down its weight.
The number of feet seems sublime.
It's too cold for them in my head,
so they turn up the heat with ease.
In time it feels my brain is dead,
throbbing pain before the release.
A drug-induced sleep gives me rest
from the ants' journey on my mind.
I can breathe. Coughs try but can't test
patience as clarity, I find.
This sickness carries memory,
of morbid times, of deathly pain.
Though far from feeling so empty,
it nonetheless brings out the rain.
This heaviness is not constant,
but it hurts in a different way.
I'll look forward to graceful tint
that makes me forget those sad days.