A few weeks of headaches and listlessness, of palpitations and sleeplessness, of such unshakeable weariness
the painkillers and the antibiotics, the receptor blockers and the immune modulators
make you a little less achy, and little less sore, and the nights aren’t as fraught
with tossing and turning, and the fluttery, nervous twirling in the pit of your gut
and that basic fear of worrying whether you even know what you’re doing anymore
if the next morning will bring some horrific disaster that everyone is counting on you to fix
and you’ll just end up standing there uselessly, hands trembling and nerveless
and the roar of triumphant chaos finally sweeps you away from the sandy shores
drowning you in the dark depths of that trackless sea of despair

and maybe you weren’t really sick in the first place, at least not in body
though you’ve been sick in your soul for years—there’s no hiding that
that ache is unmistakable
you thought you had conquered it while you sped down the freeway at 80 miles per hour
on a moonless, cloudless, Godless night
wrung completely out by the merciless day and the clamor of screaming voices each crying out
for their pound of flesh and measure of blood, leaving you wondering if you have anything left to go on
for another day, another minute, another second
and with reckless bravado, declaring that you couldn’t feel a damn thing anyway
so full speed ahead, and let the world burn
you will go on, even though there’s nothing left
because going on is all that’s left
and in your comfortless numbness, you smiled
a smile devoid of all mirth, joyless and without hope
you were deathless because you were already dead
though the heart still beat and you still drew breath

but that ache is still there, not some strange sickness from some exotic pathogen
just that common malaise that plagues all of humanity, that familiar loneliness
that sad pathetic ache, that longing
to know the touch of another human being, to connect
magnified monstrously by these barren years
so that the loneliness became a thing of itself, outside of you, but somehow permeating, pervading your being
you’d thought you’d left that all behind
it’s been months, maybe years since you’d set sail into the void
and still this obscene hollowness rasps at your insides
you thought you’d been emptied already, until you were spewing nothing but bile upon the concrete ground
but still that terrible emptiness hungers
and maybe it’s not worth it after all, this endless drifting without hope of finding shelter
no surcease from this devouring illness, this interminable suffering
because just going on is not enough
not against this abyssal howling chasm of savage wanting tearing at you
but there’s no land in any direction, just that empty distant horizon
the sun long ago extinguished by nightfall, no stars even to light your course
this is not hope, just dull habit
sleep creeps upon you, upon the shattered ravaged wreckage of what used to be a man
this is not hope, just plain knowledge
that tomorrow is another day.