I woke with sun-warm blood beneath my skin,
The day unbroken, bright within my chest.
My lungs drew in the morning like a hymn,
Each breath a vow that life would still be blessed.
But by noon's turn the light began to tilt;
The walls leaned close, the steady floor gave way.
A whispering chill through bone and marrow spilt,
And strength, once certain, faltered into sway.
A cough arose — no common cough, but blades,
A million razors sawing at my throat;
Each gasp a storm in airless barricades,
Each breath a splintered, sinking, broken boat.
Ten thousand claws enclosed my tightening chest,
Invisible yet merciless in claim;
They crushed the breath from ribs that once knew rest
And fed upon the furnace of my flame.
My thoughts dissolved in fever's humming swarm,
Like insects burrowing behind my eyes;
They gnawed at reason, nested in the storm,
And turned my living mind to buzzing hives.
Weakness besieged me at the table's side.
Before me sat the porridge, pale and mild;
The bread, the waiting sandwich open wide —
All foreign now, all hostile, undefiled.
The spoon hung heavy as a bar of lead;
The oats were stones that would not melt nor part.
The water pooled like rain the gutters shed,
Cold puddled glass against a rebel heart.
What once sustained now seemed a silent foe;
The food of life lay armored, hard, and still.
My tongue refused, my throat would not allow
The simplest mercy of obedient will.
So fragile is the fortress of our might.
At dawn we stand as pillars, firm and tall;
By dusk unseen afflictions claim the right
To prove how swiftly flesh and breath can fall.
One hour we walk secure beneath clear skies,
Our cities calm, our children tucked in bed;
The next, the air is split by burning cries,
And rockets stitch their fire above our heads.
So turns the world — so turns the human frame:
From strength to trembling in a moment's breath.
We build our towers, give our days a name,
Yet live a heartbeat's distance from our death.
And still — within the fever's searing night,
Beyond the claws, the razors, and the swarm —
There flickered small, defiant threads of light,
A pulse that would not yield unto the storm.
For we are humble creatures made of dust,
Yet stubborn in the marrow of our bones;
Though flesh may fail and cities turn to rust,
Hope seeds itself in cracked and shaken stones.
Tomorrow's bread may soften in my hand.
The porridge may grow warm and sweet again.
The sky, though scarred, may clear above the land.
And breath return unbroken to our men.
For life withdraws — but rarely without trace.
It bends us low, yet bids us rise once more.
And even in the war-torn human place,
Some quiet mercy waits behind the door.