Ill Again

Huddled under covers

Wrapped in layers

Wracked with high fevers

And with sneezes and coughs and tears.

Losing their crispness, these freshly washed sheets

As sweat and shivers destroy the washing machine's feats.

I would like to give up, but then see

My father, aged 73, plodding to office ceaselessly

My mother, a heart patient at 63, working tirelessly

And I resolve afresh to stop this self-pity.

So the bone-jarring coughs, the breathless sighs

Can do their worst, but I will continue the fights

Yes, it is hell, but I am getting well.

Of this travesty too, a merry tale I will tell.

-          - Written on 1 April 2015

-          - Self-Explanatory