I feel so sorry for myself that in my pain I wallow.
I cannot eat a single thing. It hurts too much to swallow.
I don’t respond to illness well. My vision’s so distorted
that all my work plans for the day will have to be aborted.
However much I writhe in pain, I cannot ease my torment.
I’m waiting for my voicelessness to ease up and go dormant
so I can resume life again in all my past perfection,
putting well behind me my ideal health’s defection.