Surely that’s not me,
such yellow glow reflection,
but mirror moves emphatically,
showing my infection,
stripping off my smile,
my strength, and my use,
body’s put on trial,
I become the new recluse,
so, both a ward, and a cell,
is where I lay my head,
scratching at my derma-hell,
this life should not be lead,
hence, a living box of pills,
I am to be known,
no more walks, in the hills,
where my joy was sewn,
lo, when my tears cascade,
with a red frustration,
recalls to me, a pact I made,
for my situation,
a dead man cannot play,
the music that he loves,
nor write the words of his day,
as he always does,
breathlessness, cannot explore,
such stillness is repressing,
a dead man cannot adore,
the ones that are his blessing,
thus, such thoughts, are measures,
my medicine, to live,
for there are much more pleasures,
both to take, and to give.