I am a collection of bumps in the night
sweat forms beads that snake down me
making sure nothing will sit at all right
twisting knives molding my disturbed frame
I found a bump, a second one, third to last
me a good while, while I try not to think about it
there’s a good chance it’s cancer and not just
a bodily oddity that is not the so-called perfect fit
I had a fit of cough without a rhyme or a reason
and the iris of my other eye wanted to beat the other
hair growth was found out of place and out of season
symptoms never seem to quit and there’s always another
Each bloody rash is a field of brimstone straight from hell
that will melt my meat and burn my life away
Each unhealing gash is a reminder of a battle
that is eventually probably going to come this way
that’s how it goes: the illusion is all that we have
and the meat that attaches itself to the illusion
is just a side effect, a stream of colorless waves
that results in the vision’s momentary cold fusion