The twelve numbers on the clock's observant face,
Have transformed to seven whole, grueling days.
Each stretched hour brings a new day and with it a new name.
Each hour and day I lay in my bed, a suffering all the same.
Bones bent but will not break or crack.
Heartbeat only a murmur that I can't track.
Blood is still in my veins, turned dead and black.
But the tightness in my chest will not let up slack.
Motionless, a zombie, body turned septic,
But somehow I can't recall just how I got infected,
With this disease so viral, so electric and so peptic,
I never knew immobility to be so hectic.
The lights only flicker, each paramount not bright enough,
The air is stale and hovering in the walls of my lungs like dust,
Things groan but don't move, all corners penetrated by rust,
All the windows are closed but the winds still violently gust.
There's a thunderstorm outside, loud and cracking.
Lightning dares to reach me, I think I hear it cackling.
The phones are all ringing, nerves are all wracking.
Distress and disorient both taking turns stacking.
The wind picks up again and I feel my body stiffening.
Is this it? Is this the time? The glorious and morbid epiphany?
Skin is pale and cold to the touch but yet I feel like I am glistening.
This is it, the almighty black and gold, the sick and old's christening.
