The foil of haste has wrecked,
Upon my frame that I inspect,
Ill-fallen limbs and swollen neck,
Now haste is dead. Kicked up but specks,
Of dust and fury sharpening the edge of coughs.

Filling up my head with lead,
Rising just above my cheeks,
Under my eyes which bearing
Too much weight fall bagged down,

I thought it'd fall instead but
Nay, it rose again to Thee,
The temple of my skull encasing,
The temples whence I hear a cry:

Hold stalwart firmest walls upon,
The weathered mountain face beneath,
Grab buckets old and young men place,
The springs upon this ceaseless fire.

You shall not taste our hidden fields,
Our gardens make our bodies walls,
Watch on you foulest scourge and hear,
The water quenches fire but passion not!

Sick bed,
Rolls me into an aching burrito,
And the work is left for another day,
Hopefully I can unwrap tomorrow.

Blood poisoned,
And a chained brain,
And mind predicted: broken,
Little hope for a little boy,
Who's blood didn't quite match up...
For a happy dispatch to the land of the breathing,
Then the mind-mender stepped in,
And He's been mending my mind every since,
Till I'm like His son,
So I continue to think,
And glorify this mind-mender of mine,
With thoughts maths and rhymes.

Sleepy eyes scan the room,
And all is dark and outside gloom,
For stinging frills do line the sight,
For illness comes to hide the light,
But show us still there must be more,
To tired bones and rotten cores,
He shall renew and wash and burn,
The deepest tears and virus' scorn.

Sore throat,
Feels like soaring dragons come to perch,
On my tongue and slivering down,
Wisps of flame,
And coldest pain,
Paling tunes to mock the sick days,
Even then the pale army marches,
Devouring virus and bacteria alike,
Sending protein missiles and disarming toxins,
One day such a thing shall pass,
For now he watches with love,
On this pale army of his.