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Sick Day
On this fair morn of muddled brains
Where eyelids flutter like
Vibrantly colored butterflies
My mind twirls like a wayward starling in an ethereal dance
Behold!
A sick day, a welcome respite from the mundane woes of daily existence.
In my cocoon of blankets, a symphony of sneezes and moans become a tender ode to frailty. A delicate reminder of my plight.
Imprisoned within this realm of the weak, I embrace this fragile moment with open arms.
The June winds howl outside my window, unleashing their tempestuous tongue upon the world. Yet nestled within these silken fabric confines, I find solace in the palpable silence.
A sanctuary of coughs where time bends and strretches like a yo-yo on an infinite string.
Oh, sweet clock, release me from your grip of infinite ticks. Release me from this endless spiral of aches and pains.
King, Patterson and the luminous Harry Potter
beckon from my bookshelf their adventures a tantalizing escape from this hazy purgatory of tissues and therapeudics.
And so, I devour their pages, hugrily deviating from my prescribed path of welness. The heroes and tales of fiction carry me far from this realm of bodily ailments, their courage, a balm for my weary soul.
But lo! A rumbling in the distance! A growl as fierce as a wolf's hunger. The sanctity of this sick day once unassailable, crumbles like stale bread in my unworthy hands. The thrill of the telephone, that damned siren of responsibilities, that tugs at my consciousness with malevolent glee. How dare it disturb this sacred ritual of self pity!
The world outside, with it's incessant and inundating obligations, awaits my triumphant return. But I, like a leaf caught in a whirlwind's embrace, refuse to be swept away so easily.
I shall negotiate, and flail my weakened limbs in protest and declare this sick day an oasis of delight amidst the desert of ordinary existence.
For in this malestrom of phlegm and feverish dreams, I have found an empire within myself.
So, I shall wrap myself once more in the cocoon of blankets, weaving dreams, coughs, and sneezes into a tapestry of defiance. I shall toast to my own foolishness and revel in the irony of this inconsequential rebellion. And when this storm of sickness subsides and my body returns to the fold of the healthy, I shall remember this sick day as one that elevated the mundane to the realm of the sublime.
Thus, I bid adeu to you and embrace the fevered delusions of this sick day sanctuary. May it endure in my memory as a testament to the indomitability of the human spirit, and the unrivaled power of a good bout of influenza.
© Brian C. Jobe
Where eyelids flutter like
Vibrantly colored butterflies
My mind twirls like a wayward starling in an ethereal dance
Behold!
A sick day, a welcome respite from the mundane woes of daily existence.
In my cocoon of blankets, a symphony of sneezes and moans become a tender ode to frailty. A delicate reminder of my plight.
Imprisoned within this realm of the weak, I embrace this fragile moment with open arms.
The June winds howl outside my window, unleashing their tempestuous tongue upon the world. Yet nestled within these silken fabric confines, I find solace in the palpable silence.
A sanctuary of coughs where time bends and strretches like a yo-yo on an infinite string.
Oh, sweet clock, release me from your grip of infinite ticks. Release me from this endless spiral of aches and pains.
King, Patterson and the luminous Harry Potter
beckon from my bookshelf their adventures a tantalizing escape from this hazy purgatory of tissues and therapeudics.
And so, I devour their pages, hugrily deviating from my prescribed path of welness. The heroes and tales of fiction carry me far from this realm of bodily ailments, their courage, a balm for my weary soul.
But lo! A rumbling in the distance! A growl as fierce as a wolf's hunger. The sanctity of this sick day once unassailable, crumbles like stale bread in my unworthy hands. The thrill of the telephone, that damned siren of responsibilities, that tugs at my consciousness with malevolent glee. How dare it disturb this sacred ritual of self pity!
The world outside, with it's incessant and inundating obligations, awaits my triumphant return. But I, like a leaf caught in a whirlwind's embrace, refuse to be swept away so easily.
I shall negotiate, and flail my weakened limbs in protest and declare this sick day an oasis of delight amidst the desert of ordinary existence.
For in this malestrom of phlegm and feverish dreams, I have found an empire within myself.
So, I shall wrap myself once more in the cocoon of blankets, weaving dreams, coughs, and sneezes into a tapestry of defiance. I shall toast to my own foolishness and revel in the irony of this inconsequential rebellion. And when this storm of sickness subsides and my body returns to the fold of the healthy, I shall remember this sick day as one that elevated the mundane to the realm of the sublime.
Thus, I bid adeu to you and embrace the fevered delusions of this sick day sanctuary. May it endure in my memory as a testament to the indomitability of the human spirit, and the unrivaled power of a good bout of influenza.
© Brian C. Jobe
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