Prickly

I have decided he can’t help it. The sickness brings it. 

The prickliness corrals inside the mouth, along the rows 

of teeth--a bitter saliva he must spit out.  

It is his voice, his mouth, yes but misery makes 

a good impersonator.  It stalks, it thins, it frays,

it twists the soul from muscle and bone. 

It moves without heart through its long dogged 

digging in the bowels, both claws soaked with

what flows there, until the nerves, until

the soul itself pulls away from that entire 

sagging beast. 

All this to add a bit more time to life. 

And all the while the evil sickness waits. 

You can hear it swallow with anticipation.