SICK
Hot.
Sweat stained leather sticks to dusky skin of the same persuasion.
Fevered brow furrows as crusty eyes, desperate for a moment's rest, close against the harsh light, against the pressings of the day.
Whispered voices buzz like flies, a swirling maelstrom of concern above his head.
Fanning the fiery flames that lick against his shivered skin.
Old familar blankets hold him tight.
Stick to him like frightened children, desperate to make sure he never leaves their tender grasp.
The cloth is itchy and thin and does nothing to comfort his rest.
The swirl of concern does nothing to ease his humble rest.
The ache in his bones and the chill in his blood and the rawness in the white hot pain that blinds his sight cries out for a touch that will never come.
For a voice that can never be heard
Scattered pages line his bed like a shroud, words spilling from pages crinkled and worn from a constant longing.
Pages yellowed and cracked from use.
Over use
Abuse
They bring no comfort to his being.
Settling deep within his soul he cries the tears that will not see the light of day, he mourns the passing of each moment of solitude, each tick from the bladed hands of the sadistic clock that slices his life into moments of memories
Tick
Tock
Tick
Drowning in dreaming, lost in fevered fantasties of things that can never be, a light?
A breeze?
A comfort?
A soft caress of times gone by, of memories long forgotten, but always held, deep within, the life raft to the ever dying mind?
Swollen, red, raw, pusulating eyes try to find the source.
Tongue, thick and heavy, cloying with the ever present stench of foul retching, sticks to the roof of his mouth, unwilling to move.
For it cannot be.
His brother is too far away.
Too far from his grasp.
Lost between the littered lines of wordless words that fall and scatter and shatter on the soft sheets of the sicken bed.
But who calls him?
In his desperation.
As he fights with the ghastly demons that sicken his soul
Who lightens his load,
And carries his burdens?
And is whispering the sweet words of wisdom to rest, heal and await for the dawn of the new day?
Surely it can't be?
He now lives over the oceans.
Lost in his own world of remorse and regret.
But it IS he.
Who softens the load,
And carries the burdens
And whispers the words of comfort
To the lost and lonely soul
That lies on the couch
Too ill to even contemplate the mystery that lingers,
And buries deep in his brow.
For it doesn't matter, who deals with his sickness
All that matters is,
The fight that still rages,
The fight and the fallen
The sickness and the blindness
That battles within
Is not fought alone, even though he feels it.
It's fought side by side,
By the spirit
Of the brother
He loves.
A/N: Woah, it's been awhile, right? Of course it HAD to be a bout of illness that got me still enough to write this. So much more could have been said, but wasn't, I think this little drabble stands pretty good on it's own don't you think?
Would love a review, it's been too long since I submitted anything, I'm kinda worried that the drugs are giving me a false sense of security. LOL
So, my unwavering public? Is it any good?
Rant, rave, review, I'd love to know your thoughts.
