Illness

In quiet rooms the body whispers, A fevered pulse drums its restless beat, Shadows stretch beneath the skin, Where breath becomes a borrowed wind. Sick‑sick‑sick, the world turns gray, Yet in that hush, small lights remain— A warm cup, a gentle hand, a sigh, Reminders that storms do pass, return. For me, the illness dug deeper, My disability turned every ache into a louder echo, Balance wavered, steps grew heavy, And the world seemed twice as far when I couldn’t stand. Still, the stubborn heart kept humming, A quiet strength rose from the ache, Because even when the body falters, The mind rewires, finds new pathways, holds on. From fever’s fire to coughing rain, The heart still hums a stubborn song, And when the clouds at last break through, We rise, re‑wired, still human, still strong.