My sick room has a skeleton of a small dog that isn't real. Sometimes it has a Seraphic glow, the light like a dying lamp, the growing mound of clothes some sort of divine oblivion for deluding bright clouds.
It can be anything, a pine grove, a bucket of literary lies, an author with no name, neighbor to the dead, those vast fields of reeds, but it's really just a sick room, it's home to the influenza, cholera and all the great invisible killers of the world, all in one vial that was broken.
This pale coffin of a room and dusky cave echos the vampires and invalid prey who meekly cry to doctors who only walk the halls as pensive ghosts. It's an unholy joy to drink delicious poison, cold blue lips, the black melancholic sky full of trembling white angels and the divine always with me, a variety of ink blots and woe, those golden dreams with hallucinating rain, the Makers praise, kiss my name, my eyes no longer smile, the tears are no longer mine, behold the unbreakable bones of the world, the mere breath of movement and mourning residue of a black sadness, a slumber and every slick road forgotten, your delicate hay pile no longer a place of rest but rather a cold, stone, unvisited tomb and inside a bitter, unbearably alone, unfading rose.