where's my pen?

it's your turn

now, you think, as you lie

in the cold bed

shivering

with fever.

why are your hands

so cold?

there is nothing left

to taste,

or smell, there's no

hunger in you,

no

desire for love,

or food.

what to do with these

aches

and pains,

these bones,

coming unglued,

but like always, you see

the other side,

that light,

you know that this will

end,

one way or the other,

just as sure as the sun

sets,

or rises.

once more, where's my

pen?