Sometimes it hurts
To be caught alone in the morning coughing
Waking from some tangle-dream, sweating;
To be unable to breathe, as these lungs betray you.
Heart rate rising, you stagger downstairs
(after a moment long with quiet indecision)
Sputtering sparks of panic,
Hoping not to ignite the aura, the gas of despair
(and die writhing on the floor, imagination says)
As if your whole life was but a dream to make
The illness take its full effect, this pain
An exposition dump, whose only purpose is to build the horror,
To a level where it seems you have lived it.
At how easily a life is knotted,
And the rope left to fall, useless by the wakeside,
Dangling in cold water,
Perhaps cut and left in the waves,
To sink slowly into the gloom,
Motionless into the gloom.
This pale ordeal has one redeeming feature,
And one dark condition.
Brought near by breathing deeply,
Deep enough to test the roll;
Where did the dice fall?
The condition? Recovery.
That hidden clause of all life’s illness,
When lacking, shaken, chaos plays.
And the redeemer?
This glorious shelter from the burning sun,
A deep breath, whose mostly silent joy seeps throughout me,
As oxygen soothes and body tentatively smoothes.
Maybe it was worth it for this, but only maybe,
To reveal to me one unnoticed minor bliss.