Today I am sick.
Thinking is hard to come,
words as cutting pain.
Soul physicians,
should I disclose the
whole complaint,
and curse the sky.
Or watch the churches
burn and babies cry.
Sickness is a lonely place,
of distant echoes,
and long past.
Now I need to lie down
and close my eyes.
Letters of dust, blowing
around my room.
The nearest thing to life.