The drip of the cistern.
The tick of the clock.
The gutteral wail of the aircraft engines
as my stomach churns.
The infection takes hold.
Draining the energy to fight on.
A summer chill in the air
as the raindrops fall.
Riding the crest
of the fever dream waves.
I shiver.
Can’t deliver.
What was promised?
thejrpc 