This sickness,
Unlike anything before,
A tar like substance seeping from the marrow,
As it accumulates in the blood it seeps from the pours.
Slowly you feel it like a hot sweat dripping from your legs.
The more it develops the harder it becomes to move,
Losing all the momentum once gained.
The more you struggle against it the deeper it flows into the blood,
Soon to be seeping out of ever orifice.
You must find calm in this sickness,
It encourages madness, and dissipates sanity.
It will erase the ease you once had and at heart and the comfort at mind.
It will drive you into sorrow and depravity,
Driving away all You've cared for until it becomes your only comfort.