Shadows Of My Heart (poetry from the soul; for the soul)

Common Cold

I sneeze once,
Twice,
Thrice,
Three times too many,
And fear grips my heart,
Not again?
Consumed with dread,
Of which seems so certain,
An impending doom it is.

My throat becomes sore,
What an uncomfortable thing,
From the sharpness of all the lies told,
That hurt those I love,
That hurt me,
An inner wound for a broken heart.

Yet still my nose runs,
Revealing the sickness inside,
That I thought I could hide,
And now my sore throat,
Though I have hidden,
Has indirectly been summoned,
By the deadly connection my nose has shared with it.

Never have I found the hands of time to be so menacing,
As it moves all too slowly,
Emphasizing the pain of my growing sickness.
I refuse to believe I am sick,
But now the once breath that was given me seems a struggle to have,
I fight to hold on to it,
But my nose is blocked,
As the cold of my sins thickens,
And though I wish to hawk it up from my heavy throat I'm stifled by it.
I spit it out,
Yet feel no difference in my stuffiness.
And it appears more than I had imagined it to be in my mouth.

It will get better in the morning,
My weary mind thinks,
Though I have not begun to fathom its origin,
I play with the deadly blade of procrastination.
The night passes and the sun shows its face,
Only a mockery of the sleep I was deprived of.
Even my bed wishes to spit me out,
As if I have overstayed my unwanted time.
The problems of yesterday as if not enough for that day,
Has crept its destructive hands into today,
Staining it,
Tarnishing it,
Before it has even truly begun.

I feel worse than yesterday,
I ponder the source of this sickness,
Wondering why we even have it,
And why have we refused the medication of Jesus's blood,
And the prevention of the Holy Spirit.
That though others may sneeze around us we may not caught their deadly sickness.

Do we share it willingly,
For misery likes company,
As if company makes the pain bearable.
I refuse to play the blame game,
For even in the quarantine of my thoughts,
The so called safety of my own space,
Have I caught this sickness,
For I was born with it,
Passed down from generations,
And I fear that in this way it is the worst.
My greatest enemy,
Myself,
Must I run from,
But how?
For I am never separated,
I must become someone else then,
A new creature indeed.

Oh God I wonder why I am so afraid of this all,
For doesn't a temperature raise,
And a sore throat point to a growing sickness?
Was it not at this point that hope's slowly, slipping hand was still fixed upon me?
But even then nothing did I do,
Failing to realize that this in itself was my decision,
And in trying now must I not get worse before I get better?
For is it not when cleaning do things seem the dirtiest?

But even through this all,
I look at myself in the mirror,
Familiarizing myself with the puzzling reflection,
Oh a broken soul,
And conclude with the sugar-coated words,
That to myself I've told,
Oh but it's only a common cold.