I have influenza, and it blows
my fevered brain into mush miasma
that knows no more poetic thrust than
semi-sentient, trodden slush.
This viral infestation really sucks
all impetus to write into far space
where metaphor drifts, lost beyond
head-, muscle-, joint- and backache.
Lying around for days really chews
away my time to write and flesh out
the universe stewing in my brain:
smothered in sodden onions of sloth.